Northern Escape
by BeeBurgers
Summary: Catherine is a former Talon Mercenary. On the run, she finds herself in Montreal Canada, caught between warring factions, diabolical machines and horrifying monsters, who can she trust, and how will she survive in this frightening wasteland?
1. Welcome to Montreal

A/N: If anyone needs translations, just send me a message, or add it to a review and I'll be happy to add them into the footnotes. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

Northern Escape

Welcome to Montreal

Heavy ropes dug into Catharine's wrists, binding them together while chaffing against her already raw skin. A canvass bag over her head prevented her seeing the where she was being taken. Though she could still hear the conversations of the two or three dozen people around her, they spoke in a language she did not understand.

Despite that she'd heard various snatches of the strange gibberish on her trip north, she hadn't picked up enough to even guess what the hurried and hushed discussions around her could be. Before traveling so far from her home in the Capital Wasteland, Catherine had never heard anything other than English. As she recalled her journey, her escape from her coworkers in Talon Company, she felt a familiar discomfort. Chalking it down to homesickness, she devoted her attention back to her surroundings.

Though she was certain they were still outside, the cold biting through her inadequate denim jacket, it sounded as though they were nearing a crowded room. Above the conversations she could hear a mob of voices, all shouting and screaming. Ringing out clearer than the others, a single speaker goaded the crowd. The orator, most likely a man, seemed to pander toward the throng of voices. Every phrase of gibberish conjured cheers, raucous laughter, or shouts of hostility.

When she was forced to stop, a heavy hand clamping onto her shoulder, the bag was pulled free. Catherine found herself in a plaza, a massive opening seemingly designed for specific purpose of letting hundreds gather together. And hundreds had gathered, or at least nearly a hundred, standing among the ruins of what must have been a glorious city. Mounds of rubble and skeletal remains of massive skyscrapers ringed the pavilion.

Around her, huddled in a less than perfect line, were the others from her caravan. She recognized other mercenaries hired on for the trip north, the people she'd traveled with in her flight from D.C. Ahead of her was the caravan driver, the woman who'd hired Catherine despite her more than dubious, and false, background. From where they stood, a stage built from ruined sheets of rusted metal, the assembled prisoners were in full view of the mob that had gathered, and from the glares and feral snarls, Catherine doubted this was some strange form of northern greeting.

"Bienvenue à Montréal," the man who'd spoken earlier shouted. Though he gestured as though welcoming them, the act was an obvious mockery. The crowd reacted with more shouting, the feral hatred in their voices clear despite their numbers. The speaker, the man who incited the crowd to such volume, was well dressed, though spattered with blood, a black suit and a tall hat almost masking the barbarism in his eyes.

Though those in the assembled throng wore armor, similar fineries could be spotted beneath. Catherine's trained eye also spotted a weapon in every hand, another tucked into their belts or strapped to their backs. Despite their clothing and behavior, these were soldiers, or at the very least, fighters.

"Qui va nous protéger contre les diables étrangers?" the man asked the audience, receiving another cry of collective indignity. As he turned, the speaker drew an insidious machete from his belt. He pointed to the caravan driver, and two, burly men grabbed her by either arm, pulling her toward the speaker. Both men brought the woman to a small, wooden block and pressed her down until her neck sat on the block's top, her head just over the edge. With a note of terror and disgust, Catherine identified the dark stains on the cube of wood as dried blood.

"Trois, deux, un!" With a single, downward chop, the speaker severed the caravan leader's head. Clutching her hair in his hand, he held the decapitated head up for the audience to see, and they cheered again. Shouting another garble of gibberish, the executioner pointed at Catharine. The two, burly men came for her, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her toward the chopping block as a third removed the caravan driver's body. The man in the tall hat took a clump of her hair in his fist and pushed her toward the still wet slab of wood.

As the smell of fresh blood invaded her nostrils, she tried to pull her head up, to keep her neck from touching that shallow pool of crimson. As she did, the speaker shouted another phrase of gibberish, garnering fresh laughter from the audience. When they pushed her down, the caravan leader's blood feeling cold against her neck, Catharine realized that they were laughing at her.

"Trios," The man shouted, the crowd following along, matching his jubilation and frenetic energy as he held his bloody machete in the air. "Deux…"

Undoubtedly, he would have continued, returning to "un," and severing Catherine's head. However, a well-timed bullet slammed into his chest. He fell, his fingers still curled in her hair, dragging the mercenary to the stage floor with him. All at once, the plaza erupted in gunfire, dozens of newcomers pouring from the surrounding rubble to open fire on the audience. They were followed by Molotov cocktails, firebombs that were lobbed into the audience sowing mayhem and death.

"Vive la révolution!" Catherine heard the newcomers cry dozens of times, as they viciously attacked those who'd been awaiting her execution. The audience responded quickly, turning and retaliating against the ambush. As she pried the dead man's fingers from her hair, the roar of machinegun fire became deafening, smothering even the sound of her own breathing.

Free of the dead man, she slammed her wrists into his upturned machete, cutting the rope that bound her hands together. As she desperately looked for an escape, she saw the other prisoners get cut down, one after another. Either the newcomers were careless with their aim, or they were purposely slaughtering those foreign to their country. Either way, they didn't look to be a rescue force.

"This way," a new voice shouted over the din of battle. Catherine turned to find one of the other captives gesturing for her to follow him. The other survivor led her to the back of the stage, to a manhole. Following him into the sewer tunnels, she ran as hard and fast as she could, even outpacing the man who'd been leading her at times. Only when the sound of the battle above was distant, did she slow down and catch her breath.

"What the hell was that?" Catherine asked, her heart pounding against her chest. While she'd run further without straining herself, she was certain she'd come within seconds of having her head removed, and it had left her shaken.

"The revolution," her companion replied. He didn't look like he was in a much better state than she, his face pale, and his hands shaking. "Welcome to Montreal."


	2. Speaking for the Third

Speaking for the Third

"I'm Deryl, by the way," Catherine's guide stated. When they stopped at the end of the sewer tunnel, he held a hand out, grinning through a layer of grime and filth.

"Catharine," she responded absently shaking his hand, her concentration focused on what was beyond the tunnel's end. At one point it must have been a truly awe inspiring stadium, its ceiling so high the dim light refused to touch it. However, the Great War had taken its toll, leaving massive gaping holes in the ceiling that were mirrored in abysmal crevices in the structure's floor. Stretching between the two, were dozens of rafters, creating a maze of steel support beams. Before the mercenary had a chance to ask her traveling companion where they were going, a pair of armed men melted from the shadows to stand in front of them.

"Bonjour, ne bougent pas," one of them stated firmly. Though she didn't understand the words, she could interpret the man's body language clearly. If she moved, he would shoot her. While those in the plaza had been well dressed beneath their armor, these two looked more like average workers, their clothes more threadbare and made from less extravagant material. One of them carried a horrible scar that ran from his eye to his chin, while the other sported burns on his hands and arms.

"Parlay voo Angles?" Deryl asked, obviously trying to confer with the two armed men. They both laughed, apparently amused by his broken accent and poor vocabulary.

"Oui. I speak anglais very well, foreign devil." Though Catharine would have argued otherwise, she didn't vocalize her thoughts. Her time spent with Talon Company told her that these two were not with the group that had attempted to decapitate her, but they still looked ready and eager to slaughter her and her new traveling companion. Or they would have, if a third party hadn't intervened.

Though the newcomer seemed to tumble from out of the sky, he made no noise when his feet touched the hard concrete. Though he appeared humanoid, Catherine didn't mistake him for a man even for a moment. His eyes were a sickening blood red, his pupils a vibrant green. From the edges of the creature's slick, black hair, his face sported tattoos that accentuated his bone structure and gave him the appearance of smiling. Just as vivid as his facial features, the newcomer's clothing seemed more befitting someone attending an aristocratic banquet. They were dulled blue, baggy and despite the grime and stains, looked just as, if not more, formal than the group from the pavilion.

In a single fluid motion, he brought a pair of long knives with spaded tips from behind his back and stuck both of them into the burned man's back. The two spades sprouted from the armed man's chest like a pair of deformed, steel flowers. The tattooed killer then delivered a punishing kick to the scarred assailant, sending him flying through the air.

"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle," the creature intoned politely with a graceful bow. He promptly threw the skewered man aside, like a child with a rag doll. With an almost balletic spin, the oddly dressed assassin sprinted toward the man he'd kicked, eating up the space between them with long, stiff legged strides.

"What the fuck was that?" Catharine shouted, turning to Deryl, only to find that he'd vanished. "Shit!"

She darted to the first of the masked man's victims pulling the small satchel off his shoulders. Tipping him over, she grabbed his sidearm, the rifle he'd been using to menace them long gone. As soon as she lifted the pistol, Catharine noticed something was wrong. The weight and heft of the small firearm was wrong. Ejecting the clip, she found it empty, the same for the chamber when she pulled back on the slide.

With another shout, she shouldered the satchel, neither bothering to look at or caring of its contents and took off, scrambling away from the psychopathic freak and his reckless bloodshed. There was no way to know where she was going, only a desperate, panicked need to find some form of shelter from Montreal's madness. Hopping over one chunk of rubble after another, she came to a small clearing, a spot where the roof still seemed to be in one piece and hadn't cluttered the ground with mounds of wreckage.

"Hey," Deryl hissed, waving to her. He stood across a gap in the floor, a proverbial canyon that didn't seem to have a bottom. Before she could acknowledge his presence, or more usefully warn him, the tattooed monster returned, dropping from the shadows above. In one hacking motion, the killer slammed one of the spaded blades into Deryl's neck. The knife caught for a moment before the killer could yank it free, sending a splash of red to the ground. As the survivor of the plaza fell, his eyes already vacant, the tattooed creature turned his attention to Catharine.

"Ah, mademoiselle, maintenant il est juste nous deux, oui?" As the killer uttered another phrase of gibberish, the former Talon Company mercenary took a step backwards. In response, the assassin laughed and charged toward her as though the gap in the floor didn't exist. As he darted forward with inhuman speed, his knives sweeping up and down with the arc of his arms, Catherine scanned hers surroundings for an exit, knowing she couldn't outrun this creature.

With the same unnatural grace he'd displayed in dispatching both of the armed men and her companion, the tattooed psychopath leapt over the gap. The killer's arc took him over the twenty foot gap with room to spare. As he rolled to his feet, tumbling with fluid grace, Catherine found herself staring, her mind frozen in abject terror.

How was any of this possible? That very day, just as the sun had set, she'd been peaceably guarding a caravan. Then, the ambush, and almost complete slaughter of everyone traveling north with her. Now she faced one threat after another, each one hell bent on killing her without even a hint of rational. There would be no arguing or debating with these north men. It was either fight or flight, and, as she had been since the ambush, Catherine was unarmed.

The mercenary shouted an intelligible curse, turning on her heal and running as fast as her legs would carry her. Of course, there was no denying that she couldn't outrun that monstrosity. His footsteps, though quiet, seemed to close the distance between the two of them with shocking speed. Any moment, she expected to watch one of those demented blades shooting through her chest or stomach, to feel the icy cold bite of steel in her flesh.

Before the mad man could catch up with her, she spotted a small alcove between a section of ruined flooring and a doorway. She dove to her left, skidding along the ground and sliding into the narrow space. As she did, Catharine could have sworn she heard steel whistling through the air past her head. It may have been her imagination running wild. Though, only a breath after she slid into the gap, a pair of blood spattered boots shot by the opening.

With a quick glance at the tunnel system she found herself in, the mercenary darted away from her attacker, trying to keep her footsteps silent and swift. The sound of maniacal laughter followed her every breath, as though at any moment the tattooed assassin would return and dice her into little chunks. Ducking into a ruined bathroom, she shut the door behind her, gulping down air and trying to remain as still and quiet as possible.

Even though she knew she was being inaudible, her blood pounded noisily in her ears like some mad drummer keeping a ridiculous tempo, and her breathing seemed to echo off the walls. No human would have been able to find her by sound alone, particularly not while laughing savagely and shouting more inane gibberish. However, the killer was evidently not human, not when he could move with such grace and ease, not when he could dispatch three men with all the effort of swatting flies.


	3. Enemy of my Enemy

Enemy of my Enemy

Waiting in the ruined restrooms, letting her imagination get the better of her didn't seem like an effect method for escaping Montreal. Very slowly, Catherine eased the door open, cracking it enough to listen. The psychopath's laughter was audible though faded and moving away. Sliding into the hallway, keeping her eyes in the direction of the laughter, she slowly backed away. As she slid her hand along the wall, she bumped into something, something alive.

When the mercenary turned, she found a barrel aimed between her eyes. Behind the barrel, a man with green eyes and a mop of messy black hair glared at her. A quick burst of the gibberish made her more agitated than scared. Already, she was tired of this town, tired of listening to strange languages, and tired of being threatened.

"Damn it. Doesn't anyone in this fucking country speak English?" Though they were speaking different languages, she still hoped her indignation and annoyance would be conveyed.

"Fluently," the man responded in flawless English with a sardonic smile. "Now drop your weapon."

"I don't have any weapons, obviously," she snapped in return, holding her arms out, her palms open.

"What?" the man with a shotgun asked. He took another look at her, leaning this way and that, as though he were expecting a gun to be hiding behind her legs like a scared child.

As he did, the mercenary sized him up. If it came down to a fist fight, she was certain she could take him. His arms didn't have the bulk of someone who worked with their hands, and though his bulky, knee-length, black, leather coat, made him appear somewhat fearsome, she suspected he was about as big around as a sign post.

"How did you…" He let out a frustrated sigh, lowering the shotgun for a moment. "Whatever. Bag," he snapped, holding one hand out expectantly. Again, the barrel dropped another inch or two. Catherine indignantly turned over her bag, hoping he wouldn't find a loaded weapon inside, or ammunition for the pistol she'd discarded.

"Wow," the man commented as he flipped the satchel open. "Whoever you stole this from is going to be pissed." Hating that he knew what was in the bag and she didn't, Catherine kept her eyes on the shotgun as it drooped lower.

"Not really. I don't think he's going to feel anything."

"Ah, so you killed him." The shotgun barrel came back up. For the moment he looked unsure of himself, as though he hadn't thought of what to do after he'd stolen all her belongings.

"Well, I didn't kill him," Catherine replied, hoping to buy just a few more seconds of time. "Some tattooed lunatic did that for me."

When she finished her explanation, the man went pale. His eyes widened and the shotgun dipped as his concentration on her evaporated. Sensing her opportunity, the mercenary grabbed the end of the shotgun, pulling back. As the local held on and was tipped off balance, she pushed against his chest. The shotgun popped from the man's grip, and an instant later Catherine snapped the butt of the weapon against his cheek, sending him to the ground.

"Merde," the local shouted, his eyes wide as he touched his cheek where the skin had broken. Standing over him, the lever action shotgun pointed squarely at his chest, Catherine glared at the man who'd tried to rob her. He spat a line of gibberish and from the tone in his voice and the way he gritted his teeth, she doubted is was anything less than a horde of obscenities.

"Shut up," she snapped, louder than she'd meant to be. "Now give me my shit back, and tell me how to get out of this nuthouse!"

"Or what?" he asked, his shock fading to amusement, as though something were entertaining about having a shotgun pointed at his chest.

"Or… I'll shoot you."

"That would be difficult. It isn't loaded," the man explained, wiping a gloved hand over the blood that ran down his cheek. As Catherine pulled the lever forward, and found that the shotgun was indeed deprived of ammunition, the man climbed back to his feet. "Did you say you saw a Jester?"

"Why don't you have any shells?" As she answered his question with a question, her voice little more than a hiss, the mercenary snatched her bag from the ground. Not waiting, or caring, for his answer, she stepped past him. Only a few yards ahead of where she'd hid, the tunnel abruptly ended, returning her, once again, to the main area of the ruined stadium.

"Bullets are hard to find in Montréal," the man replied, evidently decided to follow her. At that moment, she would have rather been left alone. The fact that she was being followed by a man who'd tried to rob her was even more aggravating.

"Fucking asshole," she snapped in return, trying not to grind her teeth.

"Now," the man queried raising an eyebrow. "Are you angry because I held you at gun point, or because I held you at gunpoint with an empty weapon?"

There was a long list in Catherine's mind of things she wanted to do and say to the local, most of them concerning where he could shove his empty weapon. Before she could vocalize her thought however, a familiar and insane laughter echoed down from above.

"Bonne soirée," a voice from above called. The mercenary scanned the rafters hanging precariously from the ceiling and found the tattooed killer, possibly a Jester from what her companion had said, grinning down at her. Though he was far too high to be a threat if he were human, she held no naive thoughts that she was safe where she stood. Holding his knives out to either side as though they were on display, he uttered a short string of gibberish.

"Cela a été vilain," the man standing next to Catherine muttered, his eyes wide while a faint smile played at his lips.

"What?" she asked, feeling her heart jump into her throat as incomprehension flooded her mind.

"Um… run," the man muttered, genuine fear making its way into his voice. Before she could ask him to elaborate he turned and did just that. Letting out a string of curses and flinging the empty and useless shotgun aside, she sprinted after him.

Tailing them from the rafters, the murderous creature barked out more laughter. When she managed a glance skyward, Catherine caught a flash of movement. With more grace than should have existed in one being, the knife-wielding psychopath acrobatically tumbled from one ceiling support to another as though gravity meant nothing.

Still following the local who'd held her at gun point, Catherine rounded a corner only to find the man standing still. His back to her, he stared at the edge of the stadium floor, which ended only inches from his feet. The stadium had collapsed from that edge all the way past its borders, leaving a massive drop into a small river of brown muck.

"Oh shit," Catherine muttered as she slid to a stop. Knowing full well she couldn't jump off the cliff of ruined debris, she glanced back, hoping to find an alternate route. Instead, she witnessed the tattooed creature launch himself from the rafters, twisting through the air to land on the ground behind them with all the noise of a mouse fart.

"Now what?" the mercenary asked the man next to her. In response, he pulled the backpack from his shoulders and threw it into the chasm.

"Sorry," the man muttered. With practiced ease, he took Catherine by the shoulders and tipped her over his hip.

It was a combat move she'd seen and performed countless times, designed to tumble a person end over end. As she'd witnessed before on others, she was pitched into the air. However, instead of falling a few feet to the floor, she was thrown over the edge, the ground sliding past her, like the back end of a runaway Brahmin.

Summersaulting, the sky and earth rolling past her view, she caught a glimpse of a blue leg connecting with the man who'd thrown her. The blow sent him spinning into the air as well. As the ground came back into view, she allowed herself to feel a moment of vindictive pleasure before the brown muck seemed to jump up and meet her.


	4. A Doctor and a Mercenary

A Doctor and a Mercenary

The first thing Catherine noticed as she came back to consciousness was the angry stinging across her face, neck and hands. It felt as though someone was pressing thousands of tiny needles into her skin. When she tried to pull her head up, to get away from whatever was stinging her skin, the ground seemed to fight her, pulling on her flesh. With a sick squelch, the soft mud gave way, and the mercenary managed to sit up properly.

She was at the bottom of a fairly long fall, an intimidating cliff of wreckage and debris rising off to her left, the remains of the impressive stadium. Meanwhile, the sludge she seemed to be sinking in followed a manmade ravine off to her right. It took her a moment, but when she remembered how she'd gotten to the bottom, her blood began to boil. Looking around, she only hoped the bastard who'd thrown her down here hadn't been killed in the fall. She wanted to throttle him herself.

When she did locate him, it was only by a pair of arms sticking up from the thick mud, waving about frantically. Evidently, while she had landed on her side, and only sunk a few inches into the muck, he'd landed feet first. The stupid bastard had all but dived into the mud, sinking well over his head.

For a moment, Catherine thought about leaving him there, to suffocate or freeze to death in the icy muck that he'd tossed her into. Then she recalled her surroundings, the close call in the plaza, and the monster with the knives. At the very least this local seemed to speak English and the gibberish everyone else spouted, and that was more useful to her survival than her vindictive wish to see him drown.

With a grunt of effort and general distaste, the mercenary pulled her hips and legs from the mud, and crawled over to the two waving arms. As she pulled him upwards, the man wrapped his arms around her neck. In his panicked state he threatened to pull Catherine down with him.

"Be still God damn it," she shouted as his head surfaced. He gasped, sucking in air as rapidly as possible. When he was far enough to pull himself out, she went tried to remove the muck from her bare skin. Every patch of skin it touched, sent needles of icy cold into her flesh, like a frigid fire. Still gasping, the local crawled to his bag.

"What is this shit?" she asked, trying to get the muck off her face. Unfortunately she was covered with the stuff, and wiping it away was next to impossible. And while she tried to clear it away, she could feel herself sinking downwards.

"Slurry," the man responded quickly as he crawled away from her. Catherine followed, gritting her teeth as her bare hands touched the icy muck around her. "Get out of it before you freeze to death."

When they were both on solid ground, the man brushed the muck from his coat, the leather coming away cleaner that his skin. Even though she was free of the river, her body felt chilled her hands aching with cold. After watching her for a moment, the local rolled his eyes and pried the gloves from his hands.

"Hold your hand out," he ordered. His digits became a blur of motion as he rubbed his palms together rapidly, as though he were trying to start a fire. When she held one numb hand out, he cupped it in his. She sucked a breath of air through her teeth as sudden heat filled her fingers, burning away the numbness and pins of cold. As heat bloomed in the all but frozen appendage, Catherine felt her muscles tense and her heartbeat jump.

As soon as her hand felt like it wouldn't fall off, the local moved to repeat the process with her other. As he did, a cackle of laughter cut through the silence. Blaming her sudden jitters on shock, the mercenary glanced at the cliff and the figure looking down on the both of them. The tattooed killer, looking just as mad and dangerous as ever, stood precariously on the cliff's edge.

However, he made no move to follow them. While Catherine's overactive imagination could postulate a thousand reasons for the freak of humanity to stay in the stadium, none of them truly mattered, as long as he stayed. Looking as though he had gone out for a walk only to find it raining, the tattooed monster sat on a beam of steel, his legs dangling over the edge as he spouted a long line of gibberish.

"What's he saying?" Catherine asked as life began to return to her hands.

"You don't want to know. Believe me, I wish I didn't know," the local replied with a calming smile. When he moved to let her hand go, his fingers brushed her denim jacket. Without asking permission he grabbed the hem, rubbing it between his fingers. "Take your coat off."

"Oh, fuck you," Catherine snapped pushing him away, suddenly wary of his intentions. "Asshole."

"The slurry will soak through," he explained, agitation seeping into his voice. "When your shirt gets wet, you will get hypothermia and freeze to death."

The patronizing tone in his voice, coupled with the slimy, creeping wetness that was beginning to seep into her arms and shoulders, convinced her that he was telling the truth. Cursing her lack of forethought, the cold weather, and Canada in general, Catherine conceded. With a wet thump, the jacket hit the ground, and cold air bit at her bare arms.

Before she had a chance to complain, or politely inform her newfound translator that she'd probably freeze faster without a jacket, a bundle of cloth hit her in the face. She unfurled it to find a moderately thick blanket. More importantly, though, it was dry, and better suited to withstanding the freezing air than her jacket had been.

"My name's Catherine by the way. You could tell me your name, or I can just stick to asshole. It doesn't make any difference to me."

"Doctor Michael LaPeine, at your service," he responded elegantly. "We should get moving before your friend up there finds a way down." The doctor nodded at the cliff face.

Glancing in that direction, Catherine found the killer still sitting amicably on the cliff, swinging his legs like a child. The well dressed, tattooed psychopath seemed lost in his own thoughts, muttering to himself while his head rocked from side to side almost drunkenly. When he noticed the pair making their departure, he raised a hand as though toasting them, but made no move to follow.

"Adieu aime. Rendez-vous autour," the monster shouted as they moved away from the mass of ruined stadium.

"What's that gibberish he keeps speaking?" Catherine asked, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. Even though she felt warmer than she had in days, her mood remained cold and bitter.

"It's French," Mike snapped, a tone of distaste in his voice. He replaced the backpack on his shoulders and added, "Imbécile d'un étranger."

"Did you just call me an idiot?"

"No," the doctor replied, though not without a hint of laughter. "How are your hands?"

"Fine," she replied, as they, at last, stepped out from under the looming stadium roof. The sky above was dark, clouded, and cluttered with the ruins of Montreal. Walking behind her new traveling companion, Catherine took a moment to reevaluate the doctor. Mostly she found herself questioning his seemingly random kindness. In the wastelands no one offered anything up for free.


	5. Differences in Aristocracy

Differences in Aristocracy

"So what was that thing? That Jester guy," the American asked, as she and Michael left the stadium behind. The Jester had seemingly given up his chase, either bored or uncaring of the two trespassers.

"If you believe Le Divin, they are the leftovers of an American experiment on Canadians. Supposedly they underwent some kind of forced mutation or evolution. It made them faster and stronger." Of course, what the aristocrats of Montréal said and the truth were two different things.

"And who's that uh… La Devon?" Catherine asked. Ignoring the way she butchered the pronunciation, Michael thought of a way to explain Canada's current geopolitical state to an outsider.

"Did you happen to see any well-dressed men and women armed to the teeth on your way into Montréal?" Allowing her to walk in front of him, Michael took a second glance at his new traveling companion.

Beneath the layer of grime that the slurry had left, he suspected there was a beautiful woman. From the glimpse of well-toned muscle he'd caught when she'd removed her jacket, and the ease with which she'd relieved him of his firearm, he could surmise that she had some degree of military training. Though the stories told by Le Divin would have him believe she was an inbred savage from the south, the cunning and intelligence in her grey eyes spoke differently.

"It means The Divine, and they are the self-imposed rulers of Montreal," Michael explained. When he caught himself staring at her honey blond hair, tied in a knot on the back of her head, he forced his eyes to focus on the river of slurry to their right.

"They've done plenty of good, clearing rubble, creating communities and protection, but they've done it on the backs of … Les travailleurs…" Catherine stopped walking long enough to give him a blank expression. "…You might call them slaves, though it's more complicated than that."

"And they decided to rise up against their rulers?" Michael's companion asked. Unsurprised by her conclusion, he nodded.

As with most things, there was more to it than that. The resistance had detonated explosives within residential structure, killing hundreds. In response, Le Divin had turned against the populace, executing anyone thought to be a sympathizer or supporter of the armed revolution. As his mind turned over the events that had led him to flee Montreal, Michael swallowed a lump in his throat.

"So you were one of those Divin then?" At her conclusion, the doctor felt a wave of shock and apprehension. Though she was right, he didn't enjoy the notion that it was so obvious. "You speak two languages, and you said you're a doctor. Also, I don't peg you as the working type. So why aren't you fighting against the resistance?"

"I…" Glaring at the slurry, the concrete… anything other than at her, Michael searched for a plausible excuse. "I, uh… don't know the word for it," he lied, hoping the language barrier would be adequate to keep her from prying any further. Though he could see a lingering doubt on her face, Catherine quickly replaced it with indifference.

"Well, your English is better than mine, so I probably wouldn't either," she replied with a shrug.

Though her statement brought a bark of laughter from Michael, it also ended their conversation with an awkward silence. As the mute quiet stretched out, he thought on how they'd arrived in their current location.

"Sorry for throwing you off a cliff." Michael shrugged halfheartedly, not really sure if he meant it. Undeniably, the Jester was considerably more dangerous than the fall or the slurry.

"And thanks for…" he trailed off pointing at the river of sludge that followed their path. The few moments spent completely submerged in the slurry had been like a frozen, suffocating coffin, pressing around his body from all sides.

Though she looked as though she were going to thank him, their pathway came to abrupt end, likewise halting their conversation. The manmade ravine dumped into what had once been a very large river. Some time ago the river had dried out, leaving a pathway carved through the earth. And walking through this fortuitous and somewhat hidden pathway were several dozen men, women and children. From their belongings and clothing Michael could guess that they had left their homes in a hurry, packing everything of value onto their backs.

"Refugees?" Catherine asked, as Michael slid into the dried riverbed.

With only a nod of his head in response, the doctor went to the nearest group, hoping to find some news on the state of Montreal and the revolution. The first man he talked to, most likely a traveling merchant from the amount sheer volume of supplied strapped to his back, informed him that the revolutionaries had interrupted a public execution of some war criminals and foreign agents.

With a glance over his shoulder at Catherine, still wrapped in his blanket and looking thoroughly miserable, Michael let out a sigh. Though it cost him his only medical textbook, which held only sentimental value these days, he managed to procure an adequate winter jacket for the American. Even as he tossed the bundle of clothing to her, Michael wondered if he was becoming soft.

"What's this for?" she asked as though reading his mind. Of course she didn't hesitate to don the clothing, as it must have been warmer and more comfortable than his blanket. Evidently in the south generosity was hard to come by.

"For dragging me out of the slurry," Michael responded shortly. In part that was the truth, but he doubted he could stand by and watch her freeze to death and not do something about it. However, he didn't feel the need to let her know that. "Also, I wanted my blanket back."

"Oh," she replied, tossing the blanket back to him. As she pulled the collar up to guard her neck and cheeks from the cold, Michael felt a peculiar warmth in his stomach. It reminded him of the times when he'd managed to save a patient's life. However at the thought of patients, surgery, and lives not saved, the feeling curdled, turning sour and painful in the same instant.


	6. What Doesn't Kill You

What Doesn't Kill You

While Catherine's new coat didn't fit her very well, seemingly proportioned for a Super Mutant rather than a human, it was decidedly warmer than her old denim coat, and much more comfortable than Mike's blanket. Around her, walked the other refugees from Montreal. Though most of them spoke French, or some other bizarre gibberish, some could manage a little English.

She tried to discern where they were headed, but none of them were fluent enough to explain it to her. One phrase that she heard again and again was "tueur mécanique," something she would have to remember to ask Michael the next time the opportunity arose.

The doctor, with his blanket returned, seemed less than interested in staying by her side. He went from one refugee to another conversing with them in a variety of languages. While she didn't exactly enjoy his company, she didn't want to see him disappear either. _After all, he's the only person in this godforsaken country who understands English,_ she thought hastily, rubbing her hands together.

In the time since they'd taken to the road, she'd gone through her new bag several times, hoping for something she could trade. Inside, were four, small, red, metallic devices that she didn't recognize. Though they were about the size of grenades, they lacked the aura of menace that said killing devices held. There was also a Nuka-Cola, though its label read Atomique Soude, and half a dose of Rad-X.

While adrenaline and panic had managed to keep her standing thus far, when the sun crept over the horizon, exhaustion began to set in. She'd marched from her ambushed caravan all night to get to Montreal, bound and hooded. Then, she'd been forced to run for her life, fighting lunatics and the cold at every turn.

"If you fall asleep, they will probably step on you." Catherine turned to glare at Mike as he strolled along next to her. "You look like shit by the way." Adamantly deciding to ignore him, the mercenary tucked her hands under her armpits. In the absence of adequate protection from the cold, they had turned numb again. The doctor didn't offer to warm them again, and she didn't want to ask. Instead, he pulled the scarf from his neck and pushed it between her folded arms.

"Try that," he ordered. "I can't have your hands falling off when you're right next to me. People would talk."

"Very soon you're going to realize that your generosity is not getting you any," Catherine snapped harshly. She wrapped her hands in the scarf, feeling a wave of agitation that her hands didn't instantly feel warm again. "And I think that is when it will suddenly dry up."

"Really?" Mike asked with a chortle. "Is that what they do in America? The men have to bribe women to sleep with them?" With the discovery that the scarf provided little to no protection against even the mildest gusts, her humor evaporated. "No wonder they started a war with China _and_ Canada. They must have been so miserable."

About to snap back, most likely a clever reply involving America kicking the Canadians' asses from Niagara to the North Pole, she stopped. The refugees further ahead had slowed their pace, whispering to one another and pointing. Ahead of the crowd, nearly a quarter of a mile away, was a bridge that crossed over the riverbed. At the bridge, the ground sloped upward, creating a manmade structure that would have forced water to pool and slow down. Atop this narrow rise, a small group of figures hastily worked, assembling something.

Though she couldn't see her surroundings properly, the riverbed's edges too high to see over, Catherine was sure they had left the city behind. The looming buildings, or what was left of them anyways, had vanished some time before the sun had risen. Shouldn't that have meant they were safe?

As if in response to her train of thought, a flash of light blinked from the raised area under the bridge. An instant later, one of the refugees fell, a splash of red misting into the air. The riverbed was suddenly filled with hot lead that left trails of red in the cold air. Over the countless screams, she could still make out the heavy thump, steady and unflinching as the emplaced machinegun ruthlessly pumped out one round after another.

Her experience in the field and training taking over, Catherine threw herself to the ground. The refugees, most of whom had never seen combat, were methodically butchered. The mercenary rolled as a body threatened to fall on her. Gritting her teeth against such slaughter, she stayed low, using the corpses for cover. Unarmed, she couldn't do anything against the heavy machinegun that was ripping the refugees to pieces.

"Here!" Mike's voice carried over the echoing booms of the machinegun, and the hiss and thumps of bullets.

Looking in the direction he'd been in a moment before, she found the doctor flat on his belly in a narrow niche in the side of the riverbed's edge. He held one hand out to her, even as bullets slammed into the ground around them.

Taking another glance toward the machinegun, Catherine spotted a separate group that looked armed to the teeth. By her guess, they'd wait for the machinegun to finish its grisly business and then move into the riverbed and mop up the survivors. Hand over elbow, she crawled, slithering across the ground until he could reach her hand and yank her out of the blood bath below.

"Come on! Vous pouvez le faire!" Mike shouted holding a hand out to another refugee, huddled behind what looked like a small family. The young man glanced at the doctor, then at the machinegun. He gritted his teeth and darted from his cover only to be yanked to the side as a bullet ripped into his throat. Still staring at Mike and Catherine, he took another step and fell.

With a curse, the doctor turned back to her, shaking his head. The two of them followed the gulley, its shallow sides just high enough to keep them out of the machinegun's sights. When they emerged into a parking lot, the surrounding area a flat plain of white, broken only by the occasional road, they stopped, catching their breath behind an ancient and broken car. The doctor stooped behind the rusting vehicle, a steady stream of obscenities, spewing from his mouth, while his hands clenched into fists.

"Which way?" Catherine asked. The heavy machinegun had gone silent, though she could still hear the lighter pops and cracks of small arms fire coming from the riverbed. The doctor didn't seem to be listening. He was staring into space, a frown masking his features. From his expression and body language she could discern that his mind was still in the riverbed, stewing over the dead refugees and those responsible for so much murder.

"Mike!" she shouted, at last breaking him from his stupor. "Where can we go?"

"Which way is north?" he asked, evidently noticing his surroundings for the first time. With a glance at the sun, and back at the riverbed, Catherine pointed directly away from the dried river. "There should be a settlement out that way, English speaking. And they won't follow us."

She didn't need to ask who "they," were. Her experience in military campaigns provided enough answers. Judging by the ammunition spent, and the targets they were going after, she could guess that they were more of Mike's La Devon. The only thing that really concerned her was why they wouldn't go this direction. However, she also decided that she could ask another time, when the adrenaline had faded and they weren't both thinking about how close they'd come to dying, and followed the doctor into the field of snow in silence.


	7. Cats and Mice

Cats and Mice

When the first flake of snow had fallen from the sky while she'd been with the caravan, Catherine had been astonished. Supposedly it had once snowed in the DC Wasteland. Whether it never had while she'd grown up there was because of a lack of precipitation or that it wasn't ever cold enough, she didn't know. Regardless that first piece of snow had been elegant and beautiful, not something she'd think she'd later hate with a passion.

However, after only a few hours of pushing through the two or three feet of collected ice as they trekked across the field, Catherine found a newfound hatred building in her. The snow seemed to leak into every nook and crevice, finding its way into her boots and soaking through her pants, which, as it turned out, were not suitable for warding the ice away.

Mike wasn't much help either. He kept going on with as many descriptions of hypothermia and frostbite that seemed to dwell within his mind. One story after another spouted from the Canadian's mouth as though Catherine really wanted to hear about another amputation.

"Shut up," she finally snapped. The doctor turned to look at her. In his heavy, leather coat, thick boots, warm gloves and hood, he looked warm and comfortable. By comparison, the heavy jacket she'd garnered kept her arms and chest warm, but left her feet, toes, and head exposed to the elements. Only the borrowed scarf kept her fingers at some modicum of appropriate temperature.

As though it was trying to interrupt the silence that had sprouted between the two, a high pitched whistle split the air. It sounded as though someone had added a bird's melodic chirp to a cheery whistle. While Catherine was sure she wore an expression of confusion and apprehension, Mike looked paler than when she'd described her encounter with the Joker.

"What was that?" She asked, moving closer to the doctor. To their left and right, the plains stretched away, unbroken save for occasional dip or hill. Behind them, the ruins of Montreal were still visible, though just barely. However, to their front, it looked as though the ground rose steeply along a black ridge.

"We went the wrong way," Mike explained, his eyes dancing in every direction. "If we had stuck to the riverbed, we probably could have avoided them."

"Yeah but the canal had a fucking machinegun in it!"

"I know!" The sudden anger and fear in the doctor's voice cowed Catherine into silence, at least for the moment. "If we can make it over the river, we might lose them in the trees."

"What?" the mercenary asked as Mike picked up his pace. "Lose what? And what do you mean trees?"

"Big tall things? Made of wood? Fucking trees! Don't they have trees in America?"

"No, I mean not living trees," Catherine responded, wondering if she really would see actual trees in this frozen wasteland. Another chirp cut through the open field. "Does this have anything to do with those Tour Mechanics the refugees kept mentioning?"

"You mean tueur mécaniques? That's one name for them." At the second chirp, the doctor moved even faster, plowing through the snow with a renewed sense of urgency.

"They're drones… robots," he explained. "They can see body heat, and they have some serious fire power. Every time I hear about them, it's always someone finding a bunch of bodies. I've never even heard of a survivor."

Another chirp sounded, this time significantly closer. Before Mike could give any more descriptions, there was a burst of snow off to their left, and a small form appeared. If Catherine had been in a more comedic mood she would have thought someone had stuffed a cork on a Rad-Scorpion's tail. It had the same curve and plated segments as a scorpion's tail, though it was painted a dulled red and had a metallic sheen.

The canister, what looked so much like a cork, had a small, red light that seemed to look directly at her. Beneath that dot of crimson was a small hole, a familiar design placed within an unfamiliar frame. There was no mistaking the gun barrel that sat directly below the light.

Then, four spires rose around the odd canister. After another moment the tueur mécanique lifted from the snow, seemingly directing all of its attention at the two. Its body was a simple design, again bearing a strong resemblance to a rad scorpion. It was flat, roundish, and wide with the same red color scheme as the tail, or was that this thing's head? Each leg was almost a direct copy of the things she'd witnessed Sentry Bots roll around on.

"Run?" she asked Mike in a low voice. The machine was to the west. It couldn't block their exit to the north, where the doctor's trees were supposed to be, but that could change in a heartbeat.

"Run," he agreed. The two of them took off at a swift sprint, plowing through the snow. Though she wanted to confirm that they were being chased, Catherine didn't dare look over her shoulder to check.

At the speed they were moving, they would reach the forest, what she'd assumed was a massive ridge turned out to be thickly packed trees, within just a few minutes. Between them and the forest was a small ravine, presumably where the river that Mike had mentioned lay. While the drop facing the open field appeared shallow, the other end was a steep climb that was twice Catherine's height. As though only to prove her imaginings, the drone opened fire, stitching a line in front of them with puffs of snow.

"It's herding us," she shouted to Michael. As soon as she shouted another chirp pierced the steady thump of their feet pushing through the snow. This hadn't come from the machine off to their left. It had come from the woods directly in front of them.

"Right! Go right," the doctor shouted, pointing. He angled to his right, though he still kept on course enough to close the distance to the forest. Even as they moved, Catherine recognized the trap they were in. If they stayed in the open, they'd have nowhere to hide. If they tried to scale the side of the ravine, they'd get cut down.

Putting on an extra burst of speed, the doctor tried to jump the ravine. He cleared the river, only to hit the far slope, his boots sliding in the mud. Before he could attempt to climb higher, a burst of machinegun fire cut across the slope just over his head. As Catherine ducked into the shallow shelter the river had carved, he was forced to do the same. The two of them stood in knee deep water, keeping as low as possible.

"Merde!" Mike shouted. They were trapped. Once either of the drones made it into the ravine, they'd be able to pick the two of them off easily. "They're playing with us."

"These things can see body heat right?" Catherine asked, a purely insane idea forming in her head. She tossed her bag onto the shallower of the ravine's two slopes. Moving too fast for him to stop her, she snatched the doctor's bag from his shoulders. As another chirp split the air, she tossed it next to her bag. position.

"Yeah, but…" before he could finish, or, as was more likely, protest, she brought her leg into the back of his knee. Then she pulled back on his chest and the two of them fell into the river, dipping below the frigid surface as the first drone jumped into the ravine.


	8. Liquid Ice

A/N: As always, I'd really appreciate any feedback you have. Please review, thanks for reading!

Liquid Ice

After her trip into the muck and grime in Montreal, Catherine was sure there was no possible way to feel colder than she had then. She was wrong. Though the water was still liquid, and therefore above freezing, it felt like ice was rushing past her entire body. Worse, the movement of the water was like thousands of tiny hands, snatching her heat away, carrying it downriver. It didn't help that she had to hold her breath, waiting for the tueur mécanique, to come and go.

One of them was perched just a few feet from where she and Mike lay. Its wheeled legs crossed from one side of the river to the other, searching. For one, heart-stopping moment, it turned its canister to aim its red eye directly at them. Then it vanished, going over the side of the ravine and back to the field.

Catherine waited, counting for several moments before she pulled herself from the river. Next to her, the doctor did the same, gasping air and cursing in French. No doubt he would be angry at her for saving his life. However, she was too cold to care. This wasn't the pins and needles she'd felt before when she'd flopped around in icy slurry. This was a bone deep chill, like the cold in the air had clamped a fist over her heart. On top of the chill left from the water, the air seemed to grate against her flesh, biting as it brushed against her wet skin.

Still cursing, even as his teeth chattered noisily, Michael snatched his backpack and tugged a folding shovel from the pack. Even as she felt ice form in her hair, the doctor slammed the blade of the shovel against the slope. Despite that she could see his body shaking just as much as hers, he worked furiously, pulling chunks of frozen earth into the river. Within just a few, short moments he'd managed to carve a hole in the snow and dirt.

Realizing what he was up to, Catherine lent her assistance, though her numb fingers did next to nothing in comparison to the shovel's razor edge. It wasn't until the hole was just under three feet deep, maybe half as wide that he stopped. Without a word, he stripped his heavy coat from his shoulders, flinging it to the ground.

For a moment Catherine thought he'd lost his mind, watching the doctor work at removing his sopping wet sweater next. Then, she remembered her sojourn into the slurry. Even now, she could feel ice beginning to form on her clothing, the heavy jacket sapping every iota of heat from her body.

With a promise to herself to kill the doctor if he was playing some kind of trick, she began to remove her coat, unnerved by the weight it had gained from the river. While she followed his example, Mike went back to his bag, his lips beginning to turn blue. He'd kept his undershirt and boxers, and Catherine decided that was good enough for her as well.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Mike asked through clenched teeth. "Your palace awaits you, your majesty." He gestured toward the small hole, tossing her his blanket. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she slid into the indentation in the earth. When she curled her feet into her chest, and ducked her head, Catherine found that she could squeeze into the small space.

With her shoulder pressed against the furthest end of the indention, she was completely sheltered, though there wasn't a lot of room to spare. However, already she could feel the improvement from soaked clothing or exposure to subzero air. She wasn't warm, or even beginning to warm up, but she wasn't getting colder, and that was a start.

After a moment, Mike appeared, slipping one of the red devices from her bag into one of his socks. He lightly tossed it into the hole before retrieving his soaking leather coat and draped it over the entrance. For a second the enclosure was swallowed by darkness. Then, the doctor pulled the coat back enough to climb in next to her.

Cramped was an understatement about that small space. Without asking, Mike grabbed the blanket's edge and pulled it between him and the cold earth. Between the two of them, the warm fabric stretched just enough to cover their curled legs and backs. When the doctor pulled his jacket back over the entrance, the small cave was dark once again, at least for a moment. A soft glow emanated from Mike's sock, steam rising from the wet fabric. Apparently, the red device she'd been unable to identify was some kind of small heater, something for survival purposes.

"Are you still mad at me?" Catherine asked when the awkward silence passed for too long. She knew full well that the doctor was still pissed for having been dumped in a freezing river. For several moments, he didn't answer, merely shivering in the dim light next to her.

"If we survive this, I may, one day, find, in my infinite wealth of compassion, the mercy to forgive you," he growled through chattering teeth. There was no sense in denying that she'd saved their lives moments ago, and Catherine felt no need to justify herself. Instead she focused on the dim light emanating from the sock, trying to ignore the parts of her bare skin that brushed against his.

"And if we don't survive?" she asked, hoping to fill the silence.

"Then I will hold it against you… until you die right along with me." Despite herself, a shallow laugh escaped her lips. "It was good thinking by the way. You probably saved both our lives."

"Thank you," Catherine replied diplomatically. Or at least as diplomatic as she could be while cold wrapped her brain in its icy embrace. "And if you look under this blanket, I will kick your ass."

"Duly noted," the doctor replied, though she heard no promise escape his chattering teeth.


	9. Hypothermia

A/N: I'd like to give a special thanks to Ancientassassin for reviewing. Please review, thanks for reading, enjoy!

Hypothermia

As silence began to once again envelope the two, Catherine's eyes began to droop. Between spending a night marching to Canada, running for her life and the cold, her body felt like it was made from lead. Sleep seemed more comforting than consciousness, like accepting the darkness that swam at the edges of her vision would be a warmer alternative than shivering in the dim light. That is, until Mike planted an elbow in her rib cage.

"Stay awake," he ordered. "If you fall asleep, you won't wake up." Catherine nodded, wearily letting her head droop. Again Mike put his elbow in her ribs.

"How'd you end up in Montréal?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he elbowed her again. "You can either tell me a story or listen to me conjugate Latin verbs," the doctor threatened. While most of what he'd said was beyond her cold-fogged-mind's understanding, she knew he'd elbow her again before he let her fall asleep.

"I used to work with Talon Company. It was a mercenary company." Catherine pictured her squad, her teammates and friends, all of them baking under the hot sun in a D.C. summer. "Our motto was 'if the money's there we don't care.' And that worked for us. It was good money, and no one fucked with Talon Company. Then, shit started to change."

Catherine didn't like to talk this much. Preferably, she'd rather sit and listen than reminisce about the past. Talon Company was a particularly sore subject and tended to bring up too many conflicting emotions. However, she pressed on, hypothermia and the threat of Mike's elbow in her ribs acting as catalysts.

"We started taking jobs that we should have passed. Some of that stuff… I wished I'd passed on more of them. Our second in command, Jabsco, started making all these demands, trying to change the way we did shit. I never liked him, and after I had a… um falling out with our CO, I decided to leave."

"Slept with the boss huh? That never works." It was her turn to elbow him, and from the grunt, she could tell she'd hit him harder than he'd hit her. As close as they were, she could feel him shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

"You're not fucking funny," Catherine snapped trying to ignore him. If Mike knew Eben, if the good doctor knew what the leader of Talon Company was capable of, he wouldn't laugh. However his ill-timed joking had kept her from having to continue her story. There were aspects of her escape she didn't want to expand on, things she couldn't say.

As the small heater went to work, thawing their all but frozen bodies, the two of them kept each other awake, swapping stories, trading information on the goings on of the wastes. Michael described the local wildlife, explained how some nut had brought seeds into a Vault-Tec Vault, which had turned into the vast forest she'd glimpsed. When he started talking about giant Yao Gai, or as the locals called them "Hill Bears," she could feel her toes again. By the time he'd run through every fauna, his word for animals, in Canada, her arms had stopped shaking.

Evidently this was enough of a reason for Mike to abandon the shelter. No sooner had she mentioned her improved health than he'd sprung from the cave, snatching his coat from the entrance. Though there was still a good amount of ice on the leather coat, he quickly draped it around his shoulders. Following a bit more slowly, Catherine tried not to wince as her bare feet touched the icy ground.

Her jacket had been ruined by the icy waters, soaking up enough water to turn it into a block of ice after so long an exposure to the subzero air. The same held true for the rest of their clothing. In the end, they only managed to salvage their boots, what was in their backpacks, Mike's coat, and the blanket. Before she could forget, Catherine stooped back into the small hole and grabbed the sock.

"They weren't fooling around when they made this thing," she murmured as the steam singed her fingers. "Can we turn it off, maybe save it for later?"

"Unfortunately no." She wrapped the blanket around her tighter as Mike grabbed the sock. "But we can get another use out of it. Revoir mon ami," he whispered to the sock before hurling it into the field. There was a chirp, and the sound of snow being pushed around. By then, Catherine had learned to recognize the sounds of the drones when she heard them. Silently and swiftly, the two darted into the forest.


	10. Half Naked Peaches

Half Naked Peaches

As ice and snow bit at his bare skin, Michael found himself wondering if dying by the Drone's hand would have been a preferable alternative to the dunk in the river. The only things he'd managed to salvage in terms of clothing, was his jacket and blanket. Though the heavy leather coat was more than adequate for Canada's coldest winters it stopped just short of his knees, and as he plowed through the two and a half feet of snow that littered the forest floor, he could feel the ice scraping against the exposed flesh.

A foot or two behind, he could hear Catherine cursing under her breath. Though she was wrapped in his blanket, which covered her considerably better than his coat did him, she must have been just as cold. More than once he'd considered demanding that she return the blanket. Undoubtedly she would have refused, and most likely broken his nose so that the message stuck, but entertaining the fantasy of having the blanket and the dubious warmth it would have provided, was a better alternative than imagining his skin peeling away from frost bite.

His most adept method for keeping his mind occupied was to ponder what his traveling companion had told him about her time spent in the Capital Wasteland. Subconsciously he stuffed one nearly frozen hand into his coat pocket. His numb fingers met a small bundle of leather cord and beads, and set his mind to wonder just what a freelance mercenary would do for money. Undoubtedly, she'd killed people. Had she been discriminate? Was it only in self-defense, or when no other option remained? Or was she as cold blooded as Le Devin?

When he glanced over his shoulder, Michael felt a pang in his chest at the thought of what she might have done. He knew there was no reason to feel betrayed by someone he'd met only the night before. He'd known she was a killer from the moment she'd taken his shotgun away. The fact that they'd survived numerous near death experiences, each of them saving the other's life whenever possible, did not mean that there was anything between them.

Even though she'd shared her past, did not mean he should feel anything for her that he wouldn't for any other traveler he crossed. Or at least, that's what his rational mind argued whenever his stomach would turn over or a shot of adrenaline coursed through his system when she was near.

"Oh, Dieu merci," Michael said to himself as his eyes returned to the forest in front of him. In an instant his mind was focused, and he began to stomp through the snow at a brisker pace. Ahead, just visible against the trees, a rectangular shape jutted from the snow. To anyone not looking for it, it would look like a hill or a knoll. However, Michael had been keeping his eyes peeled for sharp edges and manmade materials.

From a distance it resembled a Pre-War house, though it was much longer than it was wide. However as they neared it, the glass that composed every inch of the structure stood out more and more. The interlocking grid of steel that laced between the square panes of glass stood out from the iced over walls.

"What is this?" Catherine asked, running one hand over the smooth surface. The ice that covered the glass had left it as opaque as any of the trees looming overhead.

"It's a greenhouse," the Michael responded, running his hands over the side, feeling for an irregularity in the flat surface. When his fingers met a slight indentation, he quickly grabbed it and was rewarded with a soft crack. The door to the greenhouse slid open, pushing aside the ice. A blast of warm air, such a contrast to the cold that it felt hot, rushed over the two frostbitten travelers.

Though he'd heard rumors of this settlement, Michael had always assumed they were an exaggeration. However, true to the stories, within the glass structure was a small grove of peach trees. Grinning like a schoolboy, the doctor went to the nearest tree and plucked a small, yellow orb from its branches.

"Peaches," he said taking an oversized bite. In seconds, juice dripping onto the grass at his feet, he'd consumed half the fruit. He hadn't noticed how hungry he'd been until the first spot of sweet and tangy peach touched his tongue. Aware that Catherine had probably eaten about as much as he had, which is to say: nothing at all, Michael tossed another peach to her. "Try one."

"Won't someone notice?" she asked, staring at the fruit suspiciously. By then, he'd finished his first and was in the process of trying to eat the entire thing in one monstrous gulp. "This can't be easy to maintain, or keep so warm."

For a moment, Michael stopped stuffing his face with fresh fruit to hopefully lessen her concern. However, at that moment she took her first bite, her eyes turning wide. Despite himself, the mental promises he'd made to himself earlier, the doctor grinned at his companion.

"Oh my God that's good," Catherine through a mouthful of the fruit. She returned Michael's grin for a moment. Then, her eyes trained onto something behind the doctor. Before he had a chance to ask her what was wrong, the sound of a gun being primed seemed to thunder in the small room.

"Enjoying yourselves?" a man asked from behind Michael. As Catherine raised both hands in the air, a second group filed in from the door the two trespassers had used to gain entry. With a loud gulp, Michael turned to face the speaker, a middle aged man with black hair, hard, hazel eyes and an assault rifle pointed at the doctor's chest. He was flanked by a pair of likewise well-armed gentlemen

"We are miles from anywhere, there's three feet of snow on the ground, it's below zero, and you're half naked," the man, who Michael could assume was the owner of the greenhouse, or at least the leader of its security, described. "Would either of you care to explain, or should I just shoot you now?"

"We'll pay for the peaches," Michael promised hastily. He knew that between them, they didn't have two caps to rub together, and doubted anything as rare as fruit would be cheap enough for them to trade what they had in their packs for, but he hoped he could buy some time.

"We had an accident," Catherine explained truthfully. "We fell in the river and this was all we could salvage."

For several moments the leader didn't seem to care, or he didn't believe them. Before he seemed to have time to make up his mind, a runner dashed into the greenhouse. Though the newcomer spoke softly and swiftly, Michael could make out several words, most notably: "Marti, Raider, and Maire." Before the runner had even finished, the leader of the group turned heel and darted back the way he'd entered.

"Get them into town," the man shouted over his shoulder as he darted from their sight.


	11. Dog Tails

Dog Tales

Though the cold air bit into her skin, Catherine didn't complain as she was led into the nearby settlement. The sign in front, an old post with a board nailed sloppily to its top read "Lever Du Soleil." The town itself seemed primarily made from scrap metal and cut wood, evidently the two most abundant resources gathered from the drones and trees respectively. The various small buildings were arranged around a central, dirt gathering area. And in that area a crowd had gathered around a small, prone figure.

"Marti?" Catherine recognized the leader's voice as he knelt next to a little girl. Blood was pooling beneath her body, springing from a small splotch on her shirt just above her left hip.

"I'm sorry John, we didn't see them 'till it was too late," one of the locals said, his voice shaking. "I don't even know what she was doing out there."

The leader, who Catherine could guess was the girl's father judging by the worry and concern on his face, said nothing in response. Instead, he reached into his jacket and produced a small needle.

"You're not going to give her the entire dose, are you?" Mike asked as they passed. John and half the locals assembled turned to glare at the interloper, evidently wondering why the doctor was bothering to ask. "Good lord. Don't you have a doctor, or any real medical supplies?"

"You're looking at it," the girl's father replied holding the needle up. "And Doc Schroder moved away a year ago."

"Get her somewhere warm and dry," Mike snapped as though that were the obvious solution to a gunshot wound. As John and another local gently lifted Marti, evidently trusting his advice, the doctor dug in his backpack. Though one of the men kept a rifle trained on him, he lowered it when Mike pulled a small bag from the pack. Following her traveling companion, Catherine wondered if he intended to operate in nothing more than a winter coat and his underwear.

"Can you help her?" John asked, laying his daughter on a large table inside what looked to be a kitchen. Mike looked at the leader from under his eyebrows, but said nothing in response. Instead, he held his hand out for the needle. For a moment the leader looked as though he would refuse. Then, Marti let out a small gasp, her eyes blinking open. As her face began to contort in pain, the leader passed the needle of what Catherine assumed was Med-X to the doctor.

"It winged her. I've seen worse," Mike muttered as he went to work, carefully applying small doses to the gaping wound in the girl's stomach. Even before he'd finished, the girl began to relax, the powerful numbing agent did its job.

"Hello Marti," the doctor greeted with a friendly smile. "My name's Doctor LePeine. I heard you had an accident and I thought I'd try to make you feel better." As he spoke, Mike bathed his hands in liquid from the nearest bottle of alcohol. "I bet it's working already isn't it?"

"That's a funny name," Marti replied, nodding her head. As she spoke, the doctor retrieved a set of tweezers from his bag.

"Tell me about it," Mike replied, still smiling. As he spoke, the girl's eyes drooped. "Marti, I need you to stay awake okay?" An iota of worry entered the doctor's voice. "How about I tell you a story? You have to promise to listen very carefully okay?"

Again the girl's head nodded, though she didn't open her eyes any further. Mike went about removing small pieces of blood soaked cloth from the girl's stomach. As he went to work Catherine took a seat next to the girl's father, noticing the way the man stared at the doctor with a mixture of hope and fear.

"Once upon a time, a long time ago, all the dogs got together and decided they were going to throw a party. They build this big cabin out in the woods," the doctor explained, setting the tweezers aside and grabbing a needle and thread. All the while, Marti's eyes stayed on him, the faintest of smiles playing at her lips.

"Well, they get to partying and suddenly there's this problem. See, all the dogs are wagging their tails and getting dirt all over the place." Whether it was the Med-X or the doctor's story, Marti seemed entirely engrossed with Mike, oblivious to the sutures he began to sew in her stomach. "So the leader of the dogs tells them to take their tails off."

"They took their tails off?" Marti asked, evidently more than a little shocked. "Didn't that hurt?"

"Nah," the doctor replied confidently. "There's a trick to it. I'll show you with my thumb later. So the dogs take their tails off and hang them outside the cabin, and the party gets going again. Before too long, a pack of wolves show up." Without missing a beat in his tale, Mike made the final stich, tying it closed with practiced ease and reached for a roll of tape in his bag.

"They want to join the party. Of course, the dogs refuse, and tell the wolves to go away. Well, the bears don't really like getting kicked out, so they climb onto the roof really quietly. The wolves pull back the edges of the roof and yell 'Fire.' And all the dogs go running out as fast as they can, grabbing any old tail within reach and plucking it back on."

Seemingly coming to the end of his story, he gently applied a series of bandages that looked like cannibalized sweater to the girl's wound.

"So from that day on, dogs had to search for their tails. That's why when two dogs meet for the first time, they sniff each other's' hindquarters. They're still looking for their tails." Laughing, Marti covered her mouth with her hands. Though there was quite a bit of blood on the table, and most likely quite a bit more in the dirt pavilion, the girl looked like she was ready to jump off the table. Even though she knew a great deal of the girl's comfort had come from the Med-X, Catherine felt mildly awestruck by what she had just witnessed.

"Get some rest, okay?" Mike asked cleaning his hands with a rag. He turned to the girl's father. "She'll be fine. It wasn't as bad as it looked. She'll probably need some good old fashioned bed rest for a week or two but…" He was promptly cut off as John wrapped him in a bear hug. Even from where she sat, Catherine could hear bones in the doctor's back pop as the town's leader squeezed Mike around the shoulders.

"If you need anything, and I mean anything, you just let me know," John promised as he looked between his daughter, Mike and Catherine. Though John stayed behind with his daughter, one of the men who'd cornered them in the greenhouse arrived, promising to return reward Marti's good health with food and a place to stay for the night.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'd like to add to this that the story Mike tells is an Inuit legend and not of my own creation. I'm not sure where it came from originally, but it has been told by word of mouth for generations and was hear by me in the summer of 1998 in the Wolf Preserve in Spokane Washington. Thanks for reading, please review.**


	12. Conjectured Bar Fights

Conjectured Bar Fights

Stewing over the day's events, her mind trying to grapple with everything that had happened since her abduction, Catherine sipped her beer. It was hard to believe that only twenty four hours earlier she'd been with a caravan heading north. She had the feeling that some of the images of Montreal would haunt her until the day she died. The Jester alone had been such a menace, holding an aura of causal slaughter about his form that made her stomach turn over.

As they had more frequently than she would have liked, her thoughts turned to Michael. At times she could still feel his hands on hers, or the heat from his body in the icy shelter they'd dug. At the moment, however, her mind felt several shades cooler when considering the doctor.

Saving Marti, whose father was the town's Maire, was worth more than the peaches they'd eaten. Once word had spread, the local inn, conveniently located over a bar, had offered them a free night, as well as free drinks and a hot meal. When the local outfitter heard of the doctor's work, she had insisted on giving the duo a set of winter apparel each. After having to rely on a blanket for warmth for so long, Catherine found having clothes genuinely designed for the local weather was an almost infinite improvement.

After she had washed the smell of river from her hair, Catherine had gone to the bar, looking for her traveling companion. She'd Mike taking copious advantage of the town's hospitality by consuming what looked to be the vast majority of their liquor supply.

"That was really amazing you know," Catherine had greeted, sliding into a bar stool next to the doctor. Her praise had been rewarded with disdaining look of boredom. "I mean, you know you saved that girl's life, right?"

"Look, not that I mind you basking in my reflective glory," Mike had replied, his voice harsh despite the slur from alcohol. "But could you do it somewhere where I don't have to listen to it?"

"Fine," she'd snapped, shocked by the ice in his words. It had been as though he'd slapped her, tough he hadn't moved a muscle. "Drink alone asshole." She'd found a spot as far from him as possible to eat her meal, trying to remove the doctor from her thoughts. It hadn't worked, and she'd spent the meal stewing.

Directing a withering glare in his direction, she watched Mike laughing it up with two burly men, each of them as inebriated as he was, if not more. If he could be in a sociable mood with them, he should have been able to be nice to her. As she watched, however, the smile on the doctor's face faded, replaced by a slightly homicidal glare at one of the men standing next to him.

While she was too far away to hear their conversation, or what Mike had said in reply to whatever had made him lose his smile, she could hear the bottle of whiskey that smashed over his head. With a shout that sounded like "take it outside," the three of them stormed out the back door of the bar.

Hoping that the doctor would get some sense knocked into him, Catherine took her time following them. By the time she made it someone was already lying, face down in the dirt. Her first assumption, that Mike had gotten pummeled, was incorrect, however, as two other figures continued to scrap. The smaller of the two, ducked under a Haymaker to land a short jab in his opponent's stomach.

Laughing in the broader man's face, the doctor held his hands out at his sides as though inviting his opponent to rip him to pieces. The other man responded by driving his head and shoulders into Mike's gut, following up with several heavy handed punches to the same spot. While the attack had wiped the smirk from the doctor's face it did nothing to keep his elbow from slamming into the local's skull. In response, the large man wrapped a beefy arm around Mike's neck, pinning him in a headlock.

"I'd help," Catherine offered from the sidelines. "But I'm kind of enjoying this."

"Oh, good," Mike responded, his speech slurred, yet understandable. He pulled on the arm that held his throat and rolled his opponent over his hip. It was the same move he'd used to toss her over a cliff. The heavier man slammed into the ground, coughing hard.

"You know," the doctor stated still holding one of the local's hands, as though he was seeing something completely new. "Every medical book I've read says that the interphalangeal articulations cannot be bent backwards. Let's see if they were right."

Without another word of warning, Mike bent the man's finger back, bending the digit at its middle joint. He then laughed as though he'd proven himself right. The drunk shouted, possibly more horrified than hurt, but stunned nonetheless.

"If they kick us out of this town, before I can sleep in a proper bed, because you got in a bar fight, I'm kicking your ass." Catherine felt the urge to finish the job the drunks had started. Some part of her felt mildly cheated that he hadn't gotten the shit knocked out of him.

"Duly noted," Mike replied. "Besides, I'll put them back together." He stumbled in the direction of the nearest prone local. "Maybe tomorrow, after I've sobered up a bit."

"Would you?" John asked from behind. Catherine fought the urge to jump, unaware until that moment that the Maire had witnessed the bar fight.

"Well one thing tonight," the doctor replied. He lazily examined the finger he'd broken. "If I let this stay the same overnight, it'll get stiff." Almost as though he were trying to rip the digit away, he yanked on the local's hand. There was a distinct crack and the local shouted as his eyes rolled into his head. When the doctor released the other man's hand, the local collapsed into an undignified heap.

"Would you mind getting him up to your room before someone hurts him?" John asked Catherine politely, gesturing toward the doctor.

With a nod in her direction Mike stumbled into her, forcing her to hold him up by propping his armpit up onto her shoulder. Though he would have done less to slow them down if he'd been unconscious, the drunken doctor agreeably attempted to assist Catherine as she all but dragged him to their room.

"What was that fight about? You seemed happy enough before they hit you over the head," Catherine wondered aloud, trying to ignore the horrid stink coming from his mouth.

"Oh, well we were chatting quite amicably," Mike explained, his head dipping from one side to the other. "Then one of them queried as to how easy it was to capitulate with foreign devils. I am paraphrasing of course, but he conjectured that because we traveled together, we must sleep together. And if you slept with me you must be intimate with many men.

"I then alleged that his mother was a prostitute, and from a kennel and politely advocated that he should procreate with his right hand as he would undoubtedly be more familiar with the process. He expressed his distaste with my allegations, eloquently as ever, by hitting me with a whiskey bottle."

Despite their situation, and the coal of anger and resentment in her stomach, Catherine had to laugh at his summery of what had happened. She also felt a great deal of sympathy for the locals evaporate.

"Well that was stupid," she told him, opening the door to their room. When she looked at the sleeping accommodations, she let out a sigh. Though the town had shown them a great deal of hospitality, extraordinary hospitality considering Mike's bar tab, they obviously couldn't afford to give the two travelers two beds.

"Yeah, it was pretty stupid," Mike agreed, sliding away from her and into the room. "Next time I'll just keep my mouth shut." He stooped over, possibly to untie his boots, only to fall into the bed. Though he'd been conscious only a moment before, it was clear he was out cold, lying in a tangled heap, most of his limbs hanging over the edge of the bed.

"I'm not taking the floor," Catherine growled, though who to, was beyond her. Keeping as far from the doctor as possible, she climbed into the other side of the bed. Unlike her traveling companion, she at least had the sense to remove her coat and boots before getting into bed. Hoping that he didn't roll over and start groping her halfway through the night, she turned the electric lamp off and closed her eyes.


	13. Twisted Moods

A/N: Sorry it took so long to get this up here. Thanks to everyone who'd reviewed this thus far. As always reviews, comments and criticisms are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

Twisted Moods

In the self-inflicted, alcohol-fueled delirium that constituted Michael's unconscious mind, the demons from Montréal came back to torment the doctor, filling his subconscious with soulless eyes and fantasized cries for aid. Mercifully, some random motion or sound stirred him back into the waking world. It was only something brushing against the sleeve of his jacket, which in turn caused the fabric to rub against his skin.

As the hangover began to intensify, Michael tried to recall the events of the previous night. He'd stitched together a little girl, which could explain the dubious amount of alcohol he'd ingested. Then, he'd gotten into a fight with a pair of locals, though over what was beyond him. That explained the ache in his ribs. However, when he turned to look for the source of motion, no recollection whatsoever explained why Catherine was climbing out from under the covers.

"We didn't do what I think we did, did we?" he asked her cautiously. His memory failed him completely sometime after the fight. It was as though the world had become skewed after he'd broken the local's finger, blurring together into a mash of out of focus images and garbled sounds.

"No," Catherine replied evenly. It was only after her reply that Michael noted the obviousness of the situation. He was still fully dressed, right down to his boots, and, judging by the stiffness that he was just beginning to feel, he hadn't so much as rolled over in the night.

"Oh thank God," the doctor murmured, the hangover leaving him uncertain as to whether he felt relieved or disappointed. Hoping to sleep his way through another hour or so of a blistering headache, nausea, and sore muscles, Michael turned his face back to the pillow. However, those hopes were quickly dashed when a large boot planted itself in his backside and sent him tumbling to the floor in a heap.

"What the hell was that for, you fucking psycho?" Michael shouted. Between the impact with the floor and his own voice, the headache felt more like a tiny man was inside his head beating his skull with a lead pipe.

"I'm the psycho?" Catherine asked, her voice loud enough to send fresh lances of agony into the doctor's brain. "First, you bite my head off when all I wanted to do was give you a pat on the back. Then, you get in a bar fight, apparently over some Canadian-chivalry-notion that you need to defend my honor."

_That's what the fight was about,_ Michael recalled to himself. As she berated him, the mercenary put her boots back on her feet. _Canadian chivalry?_

"And now, when you wake up in bed next to me, your first thought is 'Thank god I didn't have sex with that.'" By the time she'd finished, both her boots were on and her jacket was firmly in her hands. She stormed to the door as he tried to reply.

"That wasn't my first thought…" Michael began, only to have Catherine slam the door. The noise sent the tiny man in his skull on a rampage. For several moments, all the doctor could manage was to sit on the floor, holding his head. When the pounding in his skull subsided enough for him to move, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water in his face.

"Cela devient compliqué," he told his reflection. He'd noted how his internalizations were more often in English rather than his native French and was beginning to wonder if it was yet another of Catherine's influences on him. Grabbing his bag and hers, Michael followed his companion down the stairs to the bar, hoping to apologize.

He found her sitting at a barstool, staring daggers at the wall. Judging by the soft light that was spilling through the windows, Michael could guess that it was only just after dawn. That explained the waitress, who was walking toward Catherine, and looked as though she just crawled out of bed. Setting both bags on the floor, the doctor took the seat next to his traveling companion.

"That wasn't my first thought," he said diplomatically. No, that had definitely not been his first thought, which had been a small host of delusions that he would never speak aloud, particularly not to her.

"I'm going to throw this chair at you," Catherine promised, still staring at the wall. Though the mercenary hadn't shouted, the edge in her voice had stopped the waitress in midstride. The young girl looked between the two out-of-towners with a mix of genuine embarrassment and apprehension.

"Do you two need a minute?" the local asked warily.

Yes," Michael responded at the exact instant that Catherine stated the opposite. Evidently unsure as to what to do, the waitress opted to stand perfectly still as though hoping to blend into the wall behind her.

"I didn't mean it that way," the doctor explained as though the waitress hadn't said a word. "I couldn't remember anything from last night and I thought I'd taken advantage of you. I'm sorry."

Though apologizing was as comfortable as chewing on a tin can, it was infinitely better than the ball of unease that arguing with her had left in his stomach. Despite that he thought he'd delivered an earnest and moderately truthful reasoning, his companion's mood seemed unchanged.

"Great," Catherine replied, still keeping her gaze on the wall, "more of the infamous Canadian chivalry. I can look after myself just fine, damn it." For several moments, Michael's alcohol addled brain attempted to decipher the information he'd just received. It finally settled on the notion that she had decided not to continue north with him.

"Ah, I understand," he stated. "They trade along the coast. So, you'd be able to hitch a ride with a caravan back south if you wanted." Well aware that he was babbling, Michael found himself unable to stop. Whether he was looking for superficial excuses as to her departure from his company or simply trying to fill the silence, he wasn't sure.

"Or you could stay here. I mean, they speak English, and are probably the only settlement in Quebec that do." The sudden realization that he wouldn't be traveling with Catherine anymore left an odd hollow spot in Michael's chest. He'd known for some time that eventually they would have to part company, but he hadn't thought it would be so soon or under these circumstances.

"I'll just keep going north." _By myself, _Michael thought, wishing that the waitress hadn't vanished into the back of the bar so that he could begin the process of self-inebriation again. "Once I'm north of Can Pac, I'll be out of Le Divin territory."

"This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that word you don't know, would it? The reason why you didn't join the war?" Catherine asked. Amazed, yet again, by her perceptivity, Michael only nodded, not trusting himself to speak, or look at her. Evidently, she was not fooled by his lie, nor had she forgotten about it.

"Well, I'm not going back to D.C.," she stated firmly. "North seems like the best way to go. I'd like to be a little further from Montreal."

"Okay," Michael responded noncommittally. "If we're going the same way, I could show you the way, act as your interpreter."

"I couldn't pay you," Catherine replied without missing a beat. Though it sounded like an excuse, Michael recognized the statement as a defense mechanism.

"If anyone asks, you can tell them I'm doing it out my misguided Canadian chivalry." The doctor grinned at her from the corner of his eye, watching for her reaction. "And for the record, don't mock us northerners for having some sense of civility. Just because you're all a pack of godless foreign devils in the south doesn't mean we have to do the same."

Catherine's response was to roll her eyes, smile faintly, and let out a small huff of air that he decided to interpret as a suppressed laugh. Her reciprocation sent his heart-rate up a notch, which was just enough for his headache to return. Wincing, Michael put a hand to his forehead, hating the after effects of binge drinking and grateful for the short bliss it had provided.


	14. List of Concerns

A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

List of Concerns

Though patching the Maire's daughter had earned Mike a great deal of generosity, his bar tab, bar fight, and the free room had pushed the town's people beyond that kindness. Even after he undid the damage he'd done the night before, Catherine was certain they would not be welcome to stay another night. More or less, the doctor got a handful of caps for fixing a few broken bones and a boot in the ass.

Though she hadn't said so in as many words, Catherine felt that she had promised to stay with Mike, at least until they reached the edge of Le Devin territory. Actually, despite her less than gracious mood toward the doctor, she didn't want to part ways with him just yet. In fact, the idea of not having Mike around, if for no other reason than he filled the silence, left a small knot in her stomach.

As though he had cued into her thoughts, the doctor proceeded to tell another surgical story, this time about setting a dislocated shoulder, occupying Catherine's mind while they trekked away from Lever Du Soleil. Though he wasn't speaking particularly loud, she almost missed the first gunshot that echoed through the woods. On impulse, she lifted her right hand to curl a fist at head height. During her stint with Talon Company such a gesture would have commanded instant silence and caused half a dozen soldiers to bring their weapons to bear.

"…Which is why," Mike continued, oblivious to Catherine's signal, "it hurts more to set it than to dislocate… What are you doing?" Rolling her eyes and letting out a sigh, Catherine put her finger to her lips. Then she crouched, hoping the doctor had the sense to do the same as more gunshots sounded in the distance.

They'd only left Lever Du Soleil, an hour or so before, trudging through the ankle deep snow, steadily north. Ahead of them was a small rise in the landscape, and, possibly, a break in the dense forest. The sound of the battle began to intensify. What had begun as only a few shooters picking their targets quickly turned into a full blown battle, a roar of gunfire.

For what must have been the hundredth time that morning she wished she'd managed to convince Mike to buy a rifle with the money they'd received from the town. Though his repeated arguments had convinced her that he was next to useless with a firearm, Catherine knew in her hands, she could make even a nearly worthless weapon into a tool of death.

Together, the two of them slowly climbed up the rise, keeping hunched over to avoid detection. When they topped the small hill that obstructed their view, Catherine could see why, even so far from Montreal, Mike hadn't wanted to stay in the small, peach hawking town. In a small valley between a series of hills, Le Divin and the resistance clashed in a violent skirmish. Though it was only two or three dozen soldiers on either side, the battle became as violent as anything Catherine had seen during her stint with Talon Company.

Despite that both sides were clearly armed with firearms, they left their cover and charged into each other. From the left of her position, soldiers from Le Divin, recognizable by their luxurious clothing, ran straight into the resistance's line of fire, discharging their own weapons as they went. The resistance gladly answered, meeting their opponents' midway across the battle field.

At first Catherine thought both sides must have been insane, to attack each-other like that. Only a mad man would willingly run directly into gunfire. But as she watched the two sides collide, she realized it wasn't madness that drove them to such extremes. It was hatred. Pure, simple, unfiltered hatred was fueling both sides. She could hear it in their screams, and see it in their movements as they wildly attacked one another. When their ammunition ran dry, their rifles would become clubs, caving their opponents' heads in with merciless ferocity.

In seconds the field was stained red, bodies piling up as the carnage became increasingly violent. The first grenade thrown by a Le Divin soldier turned a group of resistance fighters into a cloud of gore. In response, the rag tag fighters brought Molotov Cocktails to bear, turning a cluster of aristocrats into walking, screaming infernos.

As shock began to set in, Catherine felt a hand suddenly grab her shoulder. Mike pushed her toward the nearest tree, guiding her to the snow bank. Even as he pointed noiselessly to the snow that had piled around the base of the tree, she heard the first whistle. It was a high pitched chirp, just audible over the din of the skirmish in the valley. The chirp was answered by another, both coming from behind the two travelers.

Realizing that they had nowhere to run, Catherine sank into the snow, trying to bury herself beneath the ice. As long as the tueur mécaniques were distracted by the ensuing battle in the valley, maybe they wouldn't bother to look for her and the doctor. Following her into the snow bank, Mike wrapped his face in his scarf in an added effort to mask his body heat.

The first drone rolled into place just feet from where the two of them crouched in the snow. Though she was more or less covered in ice, Catherine had left enough of a space in the snow to see through. As she watched it, the drone swiveled its snake-like neck, twisting to point the canister at the battle, sending out the occasional chirp and whistle. Moments later, it was joined by four more drones, each one looking at the battle, their movements more akin to curiosity than caution.

Though they were identical in overall design, each drone was slightly different from the one next to it. Most notably, three of them were larger than the pair that had chased her and Mike through the fields outside Montreal. While those were probably only tall enough to look her in the eye with their canister-heads, the three on the hill were tall enough that her head would only come up to their bodies. In addition, their canister sported a more menacing weapon, a stub of black, almost like the thing was smoking a cigar, stuck from the metal cylinder.

As though they'd made up their minds, the machines departed from the hill as one, diving toward the battle, fire spitting from their canisters. The moment the drones entered the fray, the pitch and sound of the battle changed. There were more screams, more shouts of panic and surprise. The sporadic spurts of human controlled machineguns were replaced by the methodical, controlled bursts from the tueur mécaniques. Though she couldn't see it from her vantage point, Catherine could picture the sudden panic caused by the machines. She could all but see how swiftly those five sharp shooting drones would route the surviving revolutionaries and aristocrats.

Eventually the sound of battle moved away as the drones chased the retreating soldiers out of the valley. Only after the countryside had gone silent for several long minutes, did she dare to pull herself from the snow bank. A quick scan of the woods and valley didn't reveal any obvious threats: no movement or the telltale whisper of footsteps. She forced herself to wait again, holding her breath and listening, before she stood up properly. Though he followed a little more cautiously, the doctor eventually joined her in surveying the carnage wrought by the machines.

"Holy shit," Catherine murmured. The valley was littered with the dead, and not a single moving survivor among them. Normally, as she well knew, after such a conflict there would still be a few survivors. Those who'd been wounded instead of killed, those who'd hid from the carnage around them, would have been crying out, pleading for aid. This bloodbath was silent.

"That's putting it mildly," Mike replied, clearly just as shocked as she was.

Without either of them needing to speak to the other, they moved into the valley, picking their way around bodies. While a part of her mind was still trying to overcome the astonishment of what she'd witnessed, her survival instincts told her that she might find something useful among the dead. Almost as though it was cueing into her thoughts, her foot hit something metallic.

When she glanced down, she found a strange looking rifle lying next to a dead, well dressed solider. The weapon initially reminded her of the modified assault rifles that were beginning to find their way into the D.C. area from the Pitts. It had a suppressor and a scope and a black stock. However the magazine was behind the trigger instead of in front of it.

At first, she thought she would be better off without it, the strange backwards design looking awkward in her trained eyes. However when she felt the weight and balance of the weapon, how easily it fit against her shoulder, she decided to keep it nonetheless. With practiced ease she ejected the magazine, cleared the breach and inspected the mechanics of the rifle. It might take her longer than she'd like, but she was sure, she'd become familiar enough with the weapon to strip and clean it blindfolded.

Though the valley was a stark reminder of the long odds they both faced, the familiar comfort of having a rifle tucked into her shoulder lifted Catherine's spirits. _It's a start,_ she thought to herself.


	15. Saint's Stop

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update this. Life got in the way. As always, I would love to know what you think. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

Saint's Stop

Once the duo had left the valley, and the bloodbath contained within, they found themselves in an open field that stretched in every direction. Ahead, Catherine could see a blur on the horizon's outline. According to Mike, it was Saint's Stop, a tiny settlement between them and Can Pac, the northernmost town within Le Dvivn territory.

Even from a distance, Catherine could see that there was something wrong with Saint's Stop. To begin with, the word "town," was an overestimation. In fact, if she'd used the term "pimple on a Brahmin's ass," she was certain it would mislead someone into thinking the settlement was larger than it truly was. From what she could tell, it had originally been a gas station at a cross in the roads. Some daft settler must have thought it would be a good place to set up shop because surrounding it were several ramshackle buildings.

However, none of that was responsible for the chill that went down her spine as they neared Saint's Stop. Despite its size, there should have been some indication of life. Fires should have been burning to ward off the cold, people should have been talking. The settlement was still, quiet and, most likely, dead.

The echo of a gunshot sounded, and Catherine dropped to one knee, her rifle up and pointing at the settlement. When she didn't hear another, she could only guess that it hadn't been directed at them. Carefully, the two travelers approached the nearest building, trying to keep it between their bodies and whoever had fired.

Only when she was leaning against the structure that bordered Saint's Stop, did she hear the hurried and quiet whispers of three men. Keeping low, she turned so that her eye stuck around the corner of the rusted shack they hid behind. A trio of armed thugs stood in front of the gas station, talking softly to one another. They picked through half a dozen corpses, what she could only assume was the entire population of Saint's Stop. One of them glanced at a body on the ground, removed a pistol from its holster and fired. Ducking back behind the shed, Catherine checked to make sure her rifle was properly loaded.

"Any idea who they are?" she whispered to Mike, her voice only just audible. In one hand, her traveling companion held a revolver he'd liberated from a dead officer. While she seriously doubted his ability to use the weapon, she was glad he'd had the sense to grab it. Though he hadn't risked a glance at the men in question, she could tell he'd been listening to the odd gibberish coming from the trio.

"Hill people," the doctor replied softly. "Most likely Raiders."

"Good enough for me," Catherine muttered under her breath. She'd have to be careful with this. It wasn't a question of personal danger as three Raiders were about as effective a fighting force as a trio of Mole Rats in her mind. However, there was the issue of ammunition. She didn't have enough to waste in a firefight, better to end this quickly and quietly.

With a slow exhalation of breath, she leaned around the corner. Through her rifle's scope she could see two of the Raiders standing side by side, unaware that they had lined up with one another. Between heartbeats, she squeezed the trigger and the nearer Raider's neck erupted in a stream of scarlet. In the same instant, the man behind him stared at his partner in confusion, seemingly unaware that the same round had punctured his chest. Both fell, dead before they hit the ground.

With an ease that came from repetition, Catherine turned her sights on the third and last Raider. When he turned to look in her direction, she put a round between his eyes. Like his two friends, the Raider died without knowing he'd been shot. Before moving, the mercenary waited to see if there was a fourth Raider who might come to check on his friends.

"What language were they speaking?" she asked when she was sure Saint's Stop was devoid of life save for her and the doctor.

"Charabia," he replied with a glance at the dead bodies. "It's a mix of Chinese and some local, tribal nonsense. So they're all dead right?" Catherine nodded, though she kept her rifle at the ready. "Good, then we can just move on."

While he hadn't seemed unnerved by the slaughter they'd witnessed earlier, this small settlement appeared to have a different effect on Mike. He refused to look at her or the corpses that littered the street and had both fingers clamped over his nose to keep out the smell of the deceased.

"You're a wuss," the mercenary snapped, losing patience with the doctor. She moved into the street, her general agitation out-weighing her paranoia of surviving Raiders.

"And you're a psycho," he replied, his tone a mix of false cheer and venom. "I think between the two of us we might level out somewhere in the middle, close to the norm. Maybe if we practice really hard, we could get all the way up to functional."

"Not if I strangle you first," she muttered under her breath. When he asked her to clarify, either not understanding or not hearing her, Catherine merely disregarded his question, ignoring the obnoxious tones in his voice. On the verge of screaming at the doctor if she heard one more complaint or snide remark, she heard a feint gasp. Instinct brought the rifle up her shoulder as she looked at the trio of dead Raiders, only to find them all still dead.

"Mike!" Catherine shouted when movement caught her eye. A young man lay in the snow, wounded but not yet dead. Though blood had stained his clothing, he was wearing too many layers for her to discern where he'd been wounded.

Evidently there had been enough strain and panic in her voice, for the doctor appeared at her side in an instant. Without a word he dropped his backpack and kneeled next to the boy. He pressed an ear to the bloody spot on the boy's chest, either ignorant or uncaring as the crimson liquid touched his flesh.

"That's a pulse," Mike muttered, compressing the boy's chest by pushing against his chest with both hands. "Come on kid, take a breath for me. You'll feel better I promise." He stopped long enough to breathe a fresh puff of air into the boy's lungs, and then resumed compressions.

"Come on, just one breath," he pleaded. The boy remained motionless, unmoving and nonresponsive to Mike's pleas and frantic attempted to resuscitate him. When the doctor pressed his fingers against the boy's throat, a shadow crossed his features. "God damn it!"

With a shout of what must have been French obscenities, he pushed himself to his feet. Running his clean hand over his face, as though he could wipe away the mask of horror that had descended over his continence, Mike one again pinched his nostrils. As Catherine crossed the boy's arms over his chest, the doctor glanced at one of the dead Raiders.

"Fuck!" He shouted, punctuating the exclamation by striking the corpse with his foot. Without a word, or even a glance back, he vanished into the nearest building. Unnerved by her companion's reaction, Catherine tried to decode what wrong with the doctor. As unsavory an idea as it was, attacks on remote settlements in the wastelands were commonplace. Why was this settlement so much different from the slaughter in the valley?


	16. Truth and Conscience

Truth and Conscience

In the end it had been the smell, the sickening odor of rot that permeated Saint's Stop. It had hit him so suddenly, like a wave, he hadn't had the time to react, to organize his thoughts to stop onset of sudden self-loathing and gut wrenching sorrow. Even after he'd plugged his nose, even after he'd blocked the smell, it had burned into his skull.

Suddenly the bodies lying around him hadn't been those of strangers. The boy he'd attempted to save hadn't been some random waste-lander. His eyes, unfocused and dilated, had bored holes in Michael's soul. The doctor had managed to swallow the bile that had suddenly risen in his throat, but couldn't keep the image of the dead out of his mind.

Inside what had once been a gas station, he found his temporary reprieve. A bottle of scotch, roughly a fifth, sat on the counter. Despite shaking hands, he opened the bottle and drained its contents. The burn of alcohol washed away the lump in his throat, already going to work to numb his brain. That bottle empty, the doctor rounded the counter in search of more liquor. At the sound of footsteps, Michael jumped. Up until then, he'd all but forgotten about his traveling companion.

"You want some?" he asked, finding a second bottle, this one appearing to look more akin to whiskey. With a smile, Catherine held out her hand. The moment he'd released it, she flung the bottle into the nearest wall.

"Drinking yourself stupid isn't going to help anyone," she snapped angrily. Behind the anger, Michael thought he detected a note of worry in the mercenary's voice, and though he was listening to her, his eyes watched the whiskey slide down the wall.

"I don't recall asking you for your opinion," he replied, his tone flat and uncaring. When her face hardened and she turned to leave, Michael realized that he'd crossed a line… again.

That was the problem with alcoholism and companionship, he realized. Inevitably, the latter would find out about the former and would want to know why. As she turned toward the door, looking as though she were ready to abandon him for good, the doctor briefly considered letting her go. At least then, he'd be allowed to drink himself into blissful ignorance. But it was a short lived and idiotic thought.

"I lied to you by the way," Michael called, stopping her at the door. As she turned to look back, either out of curiosity or general concern, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a bundle of leather string and beads. "I know the word for why I didn't fight."

For a moment, she looked as though she would continue on regardless. Even in the dim light that filtered through the windows, she must have been able to see the bracelet in his hand. It was just big enough to wrap around a child's wrist, and inscribed on the beads were the letters: E-M-I-L-Y. When she read the name, and saw its meaning, her eyes narrowed for a moment. Then, he knew, Michael had her full attention.

"They butchered my family. Said, they were sympathizers with the resistance. My sister was twelve. What kind of fucked up thinking…?" Michael took a deep breath as the lump in his throat blocked his voice. Shutting his eyes, he ran a hand over his face. He would _not_ start bawling in front of her.

"And I didn't do anything about it. I didn't join the resistance. I didn't even try to avenge them. I just ran away." God, how it hurt to admit that, like someone had dropped a red-hot stone into his gut and it was burning away his insides. "How's that for fucking cowardice?"

It was several moments before he could even attempt to look at Catherine. Though he'd expected to find disgust, or hatred, or, even worse, pity, her face held only a quiet sympathy as she listened to his story. From her reaction, Michael could guess that the mercenary was familiar with loss. She knew that she didn't need to say things, or ask questions, just listen.

Of course, that didn't change the way she must have felt about him. What kind of man runs away from the people who murdered his family? What kind of self-loathing coward would rather drink himself to death than face his demons? As Michael asked himself those questions, Catherine put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry," he apologized, wondering what she saw when she looked at him. At last, he was getting his emotions back under control.

"You don't need to be sorry, Mike," Catherine replied without a moment's hesitation. Instead of admonishing or chiding him, she pointed to the back door. "I'm going to grab our stuff. Meet me out there, when you're ready."

As she gathered their belongings, Michael had a moment to himself. Without so much as a second glance at the alcohol, he stepped through the back door, allowing the cold wind to bite against his cheeks. It helped clear his mind enough to grasp what had happened. Saint's Stop had acted as a catalyst, just like Marti, letting the self-loathing and grief out of its proverbial cage.

It had been a shock to see Marti in her condition, looking so much like his sister. Of course, in his eyes, Emily had been the cutest girl in the world. He'd often told her the same, imagining her as an adult, driving the men of Montreal mad. Of course, he'd never see her grow up. She'd never drive their parents crazy, or raise a little nest of offspring.

The trick, he realized, was to put up a wall. As soon as he let one emotion in, happiness, anger, shock, sorrow, the rest came flooding in as well. If he could keep his mind sufficiently numb, he could keep his demons at bay… at least for now.

And it was as he was thinking this that Catherine came to stand next to him. As she handed him his pack, her eyes stayed on his face, possible watching for signs that he'd start crying like prepubescent school girl again. Putting on a false smile, and knowing that she wouldn't be fooled for even a moment, Michael gestured for her to follow as they continued their trek north.

N/A: Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to read and review. Let me know what you think!


	17. Conversations in Charbia

A/N: Sorry for the long delay between these. Let me know what you think of it thus far. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

Conversations in Charabia

Though they trekked in silence for several hours, Catherine felt no need to attempt a conversation with her traveling companion. She could see that he was still brooding. Either he was ashamed at having an emotional outburst in front of her, or he was stewing over his family's death. Either way she didn't think disturbing his thoughts would amount to anything more than an argument or forced small talk.

The doctor's evaluation of himself had left her mildly stunned. The idea that he could have done anything to avenge his family was beyond ridiculous, the idea that he was personally responsible for their deaths, even more so. But she'd heard the same rhetoric from other Talon Company mercenaries. One of the more experienced squad leaders had called it survivor's guilt. She'd done her best to treat Mike as she had her fellow mercenaries, with quiet confidence rather than any offerings of advice or condolences.

Wondering at his state of mind, Catherine glanced back at the doctor. Though his face was blank, his eyes stared into an unseen distance. As they trekked through the field, slowly nearing yet another stretch of expansive forest, she wondered how much further they would… could, travel together.

While she knew that Mike hated himself more than he did Le Divin, she doubted he'd ever feel any love for those who'd slaughtered his family. And if he ever found out about her past, what she'd done before leaving Talon Company, or how she'd gotten away… he'd never speak to her again. Though the thought of going their separate ways was discomforting and downright painful, she was knew that it would happen, and, in all likelihood, it would happen soon.

As absorbed in her thoughts as she was, Catherine almost didn't see the stranger approaching them from the north. According to Mike, the route they were taking should have been the road less traveled, as it was along the border of the tueur mécanique territory. However, the figure, marching through the knee deep snow, seemed to be coming directly from where the drones were supposed to be. Though he was still some distance away, she could make out a lever action repeater tucked into the crook of his arm, and a small backpack of goods.

"Mike?" Catherine asked, glancing back at her traveling companion. He nodded, his eyes focusing on the newcomer.

"If he put his other hand on that rifle, shoot him," the doctor responded. Raising his right hand over his head, he then shouted, "Bonjour!" In response, the man in the distance stopped walking, nodded and shouted something in response.

"Don't ask me if I'm sure, or hesitate. Just shoot him," Mike said quiet enough that only she could hear.

"What's he saying?" She asked, unslinging her rifle from her back. She kept the barrel pointed at the ground, but tightened her grip on the weapon.

"I have no idea. He's speaking some kind of tribal gibberish," Mike replied, a note of worry in his voice. "Nǐ shuō zhōngguó huà ma!"

Once more, the stranger responded in a different language. However, this time her traveling companion grinned and repeated the phrase, though it led Catherine to wonder just how many languages coexisted in Quebec.

"Okay, he's not going to kill us." From the relief in the his voice, Catherine could tell he'd been worried, though how he was certain that they'd be fine now, was unclear. "He's a Coureur de Neige. They trade information from here to Niagara. Supposedly they're the only ones the drones leave alone, but, more importantly, they tend to be a little… trigger happy."

"So if we just kept walking and ignored him, he'd shoot us?" she asked, mildly frustrated at once again being excluded from a conversation. Mike nodded in response, keeping his eyes on the approaching stranger.

As the tribal approached, Catherine noted that his jacket was made from a dozen dead animals stitched together, and that the same was true for his bag. At the end of his rifle, what she almost mistook for a decoration, was a length of leather string that she suspected was used to measure wind speed. That would mean he was a sharpshooter, tribal or no. All of this, she took in to appraise the strength of someone who might turn his weapon against her. If he did, she doubted her chances of beating him out in the wilderness, not where he'd most likely spent the entirety of his life.

As soon as the man was near enough that he didn't have to shout, he and Mike began to chatter back and forth in what sounded like Charabia. Even to her ears, it was clear that, though he spoke Charabia, the doctor was not as fluent as this man. Though the Coureur de Neige seemed to be aware that she didn't speak his language, he frequently glanced at her. His expression was one of appraisal, like he was sizing her up for a fight.

As the two spoke, Catherine caught snippets of words she recognized. Can-Pac, Montreal, and Le Devin were the most common, though they didn't offer her any new information. It wasn't until the tribal said, "Talon Company," that, despite the heavy accent, she got even the most remote inkling of what was being said. Mike glanced at her for a moment, looking mildly intrigued as he responded, once again saying the name of the mercenary group.

The stranger interrupted, pointing to Catherine and saying, "Kartinka shì tā . Yee imya shì Catherine."

At the sound of her own name, Catherine's blood froze. She tried not to grind her teeth at not knowing what the two were saying about her. Mike was no longer smiling as he responded to the stranger with another broken and stuttered line of the gibberish. Hadn't the doctor said something about Coureur de Neige trading information? But what could he know about the Capital Wasteland?

"What did he say about me?" Catherine asked, feeling an edge of panic. "Did you tell him my name?"

Pretending as though he didn't hear her, Mike spoke another line, a false smile on his face. The stranger gave a laugh, shook the doctor's hand and nodded at Catherine. Then, without another word, he continued his trek south as though the duo didn't exist.

A/N: (Caution spoilers)

Translations

(French) tueur mécanique : Mechanical Killer

(French) Bonjour : Hello

(Chinese) Nǐ shuō zhōngguó huà ma : Do you speak Chinese

(French) Coureur de Neige: Snow Runner

(Charabia) Kartinka shì tā . Yee imya shì Catherine : I've seen her face. Her name is Catherine.

Footnote: Charabia (French for gibberish) is my inside joke. The language itself is a mix  
>of Russian and Chinese, the former providing the subject of each sentence,<br>while the latter is used for the predicate and direct object.


	18. Words and Knives

Words and Knives

"Interesting," Michael said quietly, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of idle detachment. "Is there something you want to tell me?" Though he didn't look at her, she could practically see the wheels in his mind turning, putting that razor sharp intelligence to work. A chill ran down her spine, something that had nothing to do with the sun beginning to sink toward the horizon.

"Can we get out of the wind?" she asked, hoping to buy enough time to sort out the mess in her head. While the temperature was beginning to drop, the sun losing its grip on the icy wilderness, she really just wanted to sit down. If they were going to talk, they could at least talk face to face, somewhere that wasn't out in the open.

Without a word, the doctor obliged, leading her toward the forest. When they had found a spot to sit, a fallen log where the wind blocked out by the trees, Catherine kept her eyes on the ground.

"What did he tell you?" she asked, hoping that she wouldn't have to tell her story, that maybe she was wrong, and the tribal didn't know anything about her.

"He just said that he saw your picture on a wanted poster." Mike's voice was flat, almost uncaring. "The poster was from Talon Company, and they want you alive."

A sliver of shock went through Catherine when she realized that he wasn't going to say anything else. Was that all he'd learned from the tribal? She could just lie, make up some story about pissing off her former employer. But when she returned her gaze to his, remembering how he'd trusted her with his secret, the words wouldn't come.

"You remember how I told you I didn't like where Talon Company was going, so I left? Well that's only part of it." She kept her gaze down as she explained. It made it easier to explain what she'd done. "I took a job I shouldn't have. I needed the caps, and I'd already passed up so many others… I was just going to pull guard duty while three of my squad mates cleared a building of some bounties."

For a moment she had to stop as bile rose in her throat. She didn't want to go on. The moment Mike knew what she was capable of, he'd run. Or he'd tell her she was a monster, though she didn't know which would be worse.

"I've done jobs like that before. You don't just say no to Eben. You can't just walk away. And I didn't know…" Catherine stopped, knowing she was making excuses. "It turns out, they weren't just bounties. They were some kids who'd run away from Paradise Falls. By the time I realized that, it was too late. My teammates, my friends, had already killed them. The oldest couldn't have been more than ten.

"When I saw it… I just couldn't do it anymore. I told them I was done. When Cooper and Louise threatened to drag me back to Eben, I killed them. Fielding started running, so I killed him too. I just wish I'd done it sooner, before…" It had taken her a long time to realize that she didn't regret turning on her fellow Talon Company mercenaries. Most of them had deserved it and much worse, and it was the faces of those kids who haunted her dreams, not her teammates. "I knew if Eben found out what I'd done, he'd kill me, so I went north."

Saying it out loud, finally telling someone, felt like a weight was pulled from her shoulders. When she looked at Mike however, any relief instantly vanished. Though he absently nodded his head, he looked at her as though he didn't recognize the woman in front of him.

"Mike, I…" She started, hoping to apologize. Though what she would have said to confer what was in her heart and mind, she had no idea. Instead, she stopped when he shook his head.

"That was good," he replied. Though it was hidden behind a tone of icy venom, Catherine could detect a hint of betrayal in the doctor's voice. He spoke slowly, his eyes meandering into the distance. Every fear in her mind began to play itself out. She knew what was coming next, but she didn't want to admit it.

"It's good that you decided to try and stop them. I mean it would have been better if you'd figured it out earlier. How many times… how many families did you tear apart before you decided enough was enough?" His tone changed from cold reasoning to anger and resentment in the space of a breath. "How in God's name could you just stand by and watch that happen?

"How is what you did any different from what Le Divin did to…" The doctor stopped short, his breath catching. "How does that make you any different from them?"

At that moment Catherine was sure that if he'd decided to instead stick a knife into her heart, it would have hurt less. Her stomach turned over, twisting into a horrible knot as a fist wrapped its way around her heart, like someone was squeezing her chest. A moment later, however, her mind refocused, turning her injured conscience on Mike. The genuine pain and discomfort in her chest was replaced by anger and indignant mistrust.

"You know what, Mike?" she asked, her voice dripping with venom. "Fuck you. It must be real easy to be a coward, to just run away from the hard choices. Well, I didn't! I did the best God damned job I could and I'd rather stay and fuck up a hundred times than just run away. So take your moralities and your judgmental ethics and get the fuck away from me!"

At some point during their conversation, Catherine had climbed to her feet. Before the urge to slap Mike overwhelmed her, she turned her back on him. Hoping he'd stay there and rot, she stomped north, every cell in her body shaking with rage.

After only a few steps, something pushed against her shoulder, sending her stumbling for a moment. When she turned around, she could see Mike, standing close to her, his fists balled.

"Call me a coward again," he growled. As he stood there, Catherine could see her chance. His fists were too low, leaving his chest unprotected. In an instant she would have been able to tear him apart. Then, she realized that he wanted to fight her. Even though he had to have known she would kill him, he was ready to get in a fight with her to prove he wasn't afraid.

With a snort she turned her back on him again. Part of her hated the feeling of loss that came from fighting with him, but another part hated him for what he'd said. Not caring if he followed, and yet knowing that she'd be lost if he didn't, she continued north, toward the town that was supposed to border Le Divin territory.


	19. Why They're Called Hill Bears

Why they're called Hill Bears

The world steadily grew darker, twilight turning the sky and forest into a grey haze. Though he still followed her at a sizable distance, neither Catherine nor Mike had spoken since their argument. Nothing he could say would take back the harsh accusations he'd made, and nothing she could do would make those accusations any less true. They could have been side by side, or separated by the Ptolemaic, the distance between them was immeasurable.

When she felt the burn of tears in her eyes, Catherine would bite her lip until they went away. The white hot anger she'd felt before had boiled away, leaving her feeling more hollow than satisfied at snapping back at Mike. Some part of her rational mind had recognized the betrayal and hurt in the doctor's voice when he'd reacted so vehemently. The knowledge that he'd put his faith, trust and life in the hands of someone who'd had anything in common with the monsters who'd butchered his family… Was that how he saw her? Was she a monster in his eyes?

At that thought, a lump formed in her throat. Though the resentment that churned in her stomach was far from gone it was overshadowed by what she could only describe as shock. Why had it hurt to hear him say that? And the more time passed, the more difficult it was getting to deny that it _had _hurt, that he'd had any influence over her whatsoever.

Though they'd only met two nights before, it felt like a lifetime. It was more than just mutual survival. Both of them had all but bared their souls to the other, revealing the worst of their flaws. At the very least, Catherine considered, she had handled Mike's screw-ups with quite a bit more grace and understanding. Of course, knowing that did nothing to assuage her discomfort, nor did it grant her any insight into how to mend whatever it was that existed between her and the doctor.

As wrapped up in her thoughts as she was, Catherine almost didn't see the Yao Gaui that sat amicably in the woods. When she did notice the creature, her first thought was to question why Mike had made such a big deal out of something so small. Unlike the bears in the DC wasteland, the Hill Bear was white, fairly round around the middle, and was more of a fuzzy creature than a menacing one. Most likely just as distracted by the argument as she'd been, Mike bumped into her.

"Is that a Hill Bear?" she asked, either from some misplaced attempt to start a conversation or general curiosity. When his eyes landed on the small form sitting placidly on the ground, they widened in shock.

"Oh shit," the doctor muttered, the fear in his voice palatable.

"What? Just look at it. It's a tiny, little fluff-ball." As she talked, Mike stared at her as though she'd lost her mind. "I mean, it's almost kind of cute."

Before he could respond, the sound of something large pushing its way through the trees met Catherine's ears. Even though she was sure it was still yards away, she could hear its breathing almost as loud as a Yao Guai's snarl. Then the first shaggy paw lumbered into view, and she realized that the thing sitting on the ground was only a cub.

Her first half panicked thought was that somehow one of the snow covered trees nearby must have learned how to walk. The creature that lumbered between her and the cub was so large she couldn't get a clear look at it. All Catherine could see was a mass of white and brown fur whose shoulders came to stop nearly a yard over her head. Its two eyes, black and golden set within a head roughly the size of a Mr. Gusty, glared directly into hers.

Desperately Catherine wracked her brain for what Mike had told her about Hill Bears. They were big. She recalled that much, though she doubted she would have needed to have been told. They were curious creatures by nature and didn't eat humans on a regular basis. And under no circumstances, should she ever get between a mother bear and her cub.

As the mountain of fur and muscle glared at her, spilling hot air from its nose, Catherine reached for her rifle. If she could get a bullet into one of its eyes, maybe… maybe Mike could get away at least. The moment this large creature decided that she was a threat, however, would be the moment that the Hill Bear turned her into putty.

Before she could raise her rifle, let alone point it at the bear, something collided with her leg. It was as the sky suddenly darted into her field of view that she realized that Mike had knocked her legs out from under her. She also realized, in that brief moment when time seemed to slow to a crawl as gravity reasserted its dominance on her body, that it was the same move she'd used to dunk him in the river the previous morning.

Even muffled by her impact with the soft snow, a sudden yelp, as well as the sound of something massive moving past her, reached Catherine's ears. She heard the snow move, more growling, and then an earth shaking roar that left her ears ringing. Before she even had so much as a chance to recover her wits, the bear's head moved into view. As it blocked out the sky above, it sucked in a whiff of air, her hair moving in the wind generated. Yet again, the massive beast let out a feral roar, the heat from its breath melting the snow around her.

Then, it turned, almost as though it was bored with her, and plucked its cub from the ground. Waiting was pure agony, trying to be still while the bear meandered away from them. All the while, she tried to hear past the ringing in her ears for some sign that her traveling companion hadn't been gored to death. Once again, Catherine found her imagination working against her. She could picture the bloody and mangled corpse, steam still rising into the cold air.

Climbing to her feet, already terrified of what she'd find, Catherine scanned the woods. When her eyes fell on the crumpled form lying face down in the snow, she felt her heart stop. In an instant, as she plowed through the snow, it was hammering against her chest again. How would she find her way north? How would she survive out here? And how would she be able to walk another foot through the snow without hearing one of his dumb jokes? How quiet would the world become if he wasn't there to tell her stories about amputees and frostbite?

"Mike!" _Please move! _She shouted within her own skull. _Please just let me know you're still alive. _

"Uh…" Mike complained into the snow. As she knelt next to him, she could see the damage the bear had done. His coat looked like it had been through a wood chipper, small stains of red just visible in the gashes the bear had left in the leather. When she rolled him over, she found a nasty cut on his forehead that left a trail of blood down one side of his face.

"I don't want to play with your teddy bear, Catherine." Though his voice was slurred and garbled, it was the voice of someone who was still alive. "He isn't nice."

Despite that she wanted to shout at, strangle and hug him all at the same time, a half-choked, relieved bark of laughter jumped from Catherine's throat. When she attempted to lift him, he let out a shout, clutching at a gash on his right thigh. Hot blood spilled from his leg to leave steaming trails in the snow. As the light began to fade, she half-dragged half-carried the doctor through the woods.

"So that's why they're called Hill Bears, huh?" Catherine asked, trying to keep Mike awake. "Because they're as big as hills," they chimed together.

"Which way am I supposed to be going?" The mercenary examined the woods around her. She knew they hadn't been going north for at least an hour after their argument, but she couldn't remember why.

"North… no, I mean East," Mike explained with his usual clarity. "Go east until you get to the road, then north."

With the hope that the bear hadn't scrambled his brain around too much, Catherine followed his directions. The longer they pressed through the snow, the darker the forest became, and the more Mike was forced to lean on her shoulder to keep from falling over. A mad relief flooded her body and mind when they at last stumbled onto a strip of asphalt.

"I'm sorry," the injured doctor whispered, his voice so feint that she almost missed it. "I didn't mean it."

"It's okay," she replied keeping her mind focused on getting them to the nearest town before the sky went completely dark.

"No," Mike said more forcefully. He pushed away from her to stand on his uninjured leg. "It's not okay. It was stupid and cruel, and it was the meanest thing I could think of." With each utterance, the doctor's voice became weaker, his breathing more erratic.

"If I don't…" He stopped as though he'd forgotten what he was going to say next. "You are a good person… I just… I mean, I can't… wait a minute."

The doctor tried to take a step, only to have his knees buckle. Catherine managed to catch him before he hit the asphalt, wishing he'd saved his energy for the walk to Can-Pac rather than trying to speak to her. By then, he could no more support his own weight than she could run back and wrestle with that Hill Bear.

Wondering why he had to be half dead in order to say anything worthwhile, Catherine searched the all but pitch black road ahead for some sign of civilization. She tried not to think about how quiet Mike's breathing had become, or how cold his body was growing. And it wasn't until she was sure that he'd die leaning against her in this cold, frostbitten wasteland that she saw a string of lights further down the road.


	20. Things Broken

A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. Please, let me know what you think, enjoy!

Things Broken

In the delirium that had ensued after the Hill Bear had tossed him around like a rag doll, Michael's subconscious had produced some fairly vivid delusions. The most prominent of which involved the bear that had caused the situation adamantly masticating on the doctor's body, much in the way a Brahmin would chew cud. Meanwhile, his family ate a picnic nearby with Catherine as their guest. As the bear ground his body into pulp, they discussed how much better the world would be without him.

With a startled shout, he regained consciousness, wondering why the night air had turned so warm. It was then that he realized he was not still in the wilderness, but within a medical center. As it turned out, Catherine had not decided to abandon him in the woods, though he wouldn't have blamed her if she had, but had carried him to Can Pac, the northern most settlement within Le Divin territory. Even from within the confined spaces of the medical facilities, he could recognize that he was within the infamous crashed aircraft that the town had been built in and around. The mercenary responsible for bringing him here, stood nearby as he regained enough of his faculties to sit up.

"What happened?" he asked, looking from her to the woman who must have served as the town's surgeon. While Michael was a doctor himself, he had a unique distrust toward others in his profession, particularly those so far from Montreal and its wealth of medical knowledge. From the rate that his wounds had healed, he could discern that the surgeon had injected several Stim-Paks into his system.

"When did we get to Can Pac?" Though he was certain there were more prudent questions at hand, the Conifer's attempt at caving his skull inward had left his psyche in a jumble of fragmented memories. He remembered being angry, feeling betrayed, terrified, and incredibly mournful, but he couldn't recall why.

"So this is Can Pac, then?" Catherine asked, a tone of false lightness in her voice. "No one here speaks English so I wouldn't know." For several moments he stared at her, ignoring the surgeon's departure. Then he remembered their argument, the accusations he'd made, and her response. He felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach tied itself in knots.

"Can we talk?" he asked quietly, "somewhere a little more private?"

After he paid the surgeon with the majority of the income he'd garnered from tending to Marti's wounds, Catherine helped him to a room she'd rented while he'd been unconscious. While Can Pac's surgeon had done a truly miraculous job at applying copious amounts of drugs to his injuries, the effects of getting mauled by a bear had left him with a severe limp.

When she shut the door, and they were truly alone, he took a seat in the nearest chair. Ignoring that, once again, there was only one bed, Michael tried to compose his thoughts. He could recall what he'd said to her, even recalling the reasoning he'd said to himself for explaining his actions.

Her admission of what she'd done in the Capital Wasteland had hurt, almost as much as the disgust on her face when she'd called him a coward. Not for the first time, and he was not the last either, Michael wondered just how well he knew his traveling companion. The Raiders in Saint's Stop had proven that Catherine was more than capable of taking lives. The skills she'd put on display were recognizable as both practiced and honed.

But when he looked at her, that wasn't what he saw. Even as she sat on the bed, the rifle set against the wall, Michael didn't see a killer. Instead, he remembered her pulling him from the muck in Montreal, the less than rare occasions when she had laughed at his stories or jokes. In Saint's Stop she'd kept him from drinking himself to death, despite his every attempt to tell her to piss off.

"Look... about what I said," he began, his eyes on the floor. "I was wrong. You're not like Le Divin. I shouldn't have said that and I'm sorry."

"Then why did you?" Catherine asked, standing to face him. Even through the cloud of Med-X and Stim-Paks, Michael's brain could recognize the angst in her voice.

"Because I…" Yet again, the doctor found himself at a loss for words when it concerned his traveling companion. As she stood there, staring at him, waiting for him to explain, he realized that the way her smile would make his heart race, and the yawning pit in his stomach left from their argument came from one source. But knowing it and saying it were two different things.

"I need you," Michael finally explained, choking on the words as he laid his cards on the table. "I rely on having you around. And when you told me what you'd done… I don't know. It was like you weren't you anymore. You weren't the woman who dunked me in the river, or puts up with my amputation stories… or kept me from drinking myself to death."

It was as he failingly tried to explain, making more excuses than actually admitting to his own idiocy in the process, that the doctor questioned his own logic. Why did it even matter what she'd done in the Capital Wasteland? He knew who she was now and that was all he needed.

"But what you did in D.C. doesn't change who you are," he continued, certain that he was rambling. "It shouldn't have mattered and I'm sorry I was an asshole." What would come next didn't sit well in the doctor's stomach. The worry that they were going their separate ways ate at his insides and at that moment he was sure Catherine was reaching the inevitable conclusion that they could not continue on together.

"Yeah, Mike," she said slowly and softly. Her tone was flat, lacking in either compassion or hatred. And her pause gave his brain enough time to consider a myriad of possible fantasies, most of which ended with her slamming the door and leaving as fast as her legs would carry her.

"I think I need you around too." Of all the things he'd expected, that hadn't been one of them. As the shock of learning that she might not hate him began to fade, Michael noticed how much closer she had moved toward him. The room was nothing if not claustrophobic, and she'd moved to stand only a foot or so away.

"You know you're not a coward, right?" Catherine asked rhetorically, crouching so that her face was level with his. It took him a moment to realize that she was apologizing for snapping back, mostly because his mind was focused on other areas. "You're without a doubt the bravest man I've ever met."

They were close, so close he could feel her breath on his skin. He could reach out and brush the stray lock of honey colored hair that had fallen across her eyes. For a moment he was tempted. After all they were alone, the room to themselves, and once again without a second bed. But… no, not after he'd done everything he could to tear whatever there was between them to pieces. Evidently, Catherine's mind had been elsewhere as well.

"Oh God, I need a drink," she said climbing to her feet. Her expression a mix of relief and weariness, the former mercenary held her hand out to help Michael stand. Though his back and leg protested the motion, his muscles still stiff from the rapid healing done by dubious levels of medication, the doctor plastered a matching look of relief on his face and took her hand.

"Glad you said it," he replied, banishing half a dozen fantasies from his mind. "Are we okay?"

"Yeah, we're okay, Mike."


	21. Finger Trapping

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been following this. Questions, comments and criticisms are still greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

Finger Trapping

Though the steady churning discomfort in Catherine's stomach had been replaced by a fleeting wave of relief, she was still grateful when the first bite of alcohol took away some of the edge. On the one hand, most of the sting from her argument with Mike had more or less faded and she was on her way to not wanting to strangle the man. However on the other, she had realized that her arguments with the doctor and their near constant state of proximate death had provided something of a distraction.

It was more than just simple codependence, what both of them had hesitantly admitted to. Though, that alone was something altogether foreign to the mercenary. _If you rely on someone to make you happy, then they can also make you sad,_ she contemplated, oversimplifying the matter at hand. However, that did little to clarify whether she preferred solitude to companionship. Neither did the way her heart fluttered when she glanced at the doctor, keeping a less-than-mindful eye on his alcohol intake.

It had done the same thing when they'd been alone in their rented room despite that she had tried to get it to stop doing that. And yet… the opportunity to see exactly what lay between them had presented itself. So why hadn't she taken it? Even with a dubious level of alcohol already making her thinking less and less clear, the answer to that question was abundantly apparent.

Even though she wanted to test their relationship, the thought of not finding reciprocation, that she might find that same revulsion that had started their argument earlier, kept her from acting on the whim. So, before either of them could do something they might both regret later, she'd changed the subject and offered to buy Mike a drink. Instead she emptied another three fingers of scotch, wondering just when things had gotten so complicated.

"Um… Catherine," Mike started hesitantly. "We seem to have a bit of a problem." For a moment, she was worried that he'd begin to apologize for something else, his continence still looking slightly morose.

"I think we're being followed," the doctor explained, thankfully keeping his eyes forward rather than point. "Over in the corner, there's a man dressed like he just skinned that bear we tangled with. I'm pretty sure he was in Lever Du Soleil."

As casually as she could managed, Catherine turned around, placing her elbows on the bar as though she was simply tired of looking at the hard liquor selection.

"Do you know him?" she asked, glancing at their pursuer. He was a broad man, clothed in leathers and furs. A bushy beard and a mass of wild hair made his head look larger that it was, while his eyes seemed sunken and small by comparison. From where she was standing she couldn't see a firearm, but a baton was visible, hanging from the man's belt.

"His name's Beau. From what I've heard, he's a combination tracker, trapper and human hunter." As Mike explained, Catherine turned back to the bar. "He made a name for himself by dragging people back to Montreal. Supposedly he likes to break people's fingers."

"So you two should have something in common then?" Catherine asked playfully, wondering if she was beginning to share in the doctor's taste for graveyard humor.

"If only he was a narcissistic, binge-drinking doctor, we could create a finger-breaking, narcissistic, binger-drinking doctor's club." As he spoke, his voice completely deadpan, she clamped a hand over her mouth, smothering a stream of laughter. "Should we go talk to him?"

"Yeah," Catherine replied, beginning to wish she'd had less alcohol. "Let's go pick a fight." She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. Like the other visitors of Can Pac, she'd been allowed to keep her rifle, which was slung over one shoulder. Even though it was shorter than the assault rifles in the Capital Wasteland, she doubted she'd be able to use it properly against the trapper.

"Or we could just talk to him," Mike countered, his voice dripping with false hope. "No one would need to get hurt, or have their fingers broken."

"Wuss," she responded sweetly.

"Psycho," he countered, though he managed to inject a sliver of affection into the word. When she glanced at him, she saw her grin mirrored on his face.

Though he seemed to see them coming, Beau didn't react, even when Mike sat himself in the chair opposite from the tracker. It wasn't until Catherine placed herself in the adjacent seat, that his eyes turned to the duo, giving them a look of disdain and impatience.

"Can I help you?" the man asked quietly, sliding a thin sheet of paper into his coat pocket. Beau spoke slowly, as though he were simple minded. That he greeted them in English, considering that no one else in Can Pac spoke it, said that the trapper already knew at least something about Catherine.

"Do we happen to be going in the same direction, stranger?" Mike asked, his tone friendly and nonchalant. "Or are you following us?"

"You reach for that belly gun and I will stove your head in," Beau stated firmly. He spoke in the same slow and somewhat menacing tone, but with a conviction that left little doubt in Catherine's mind. Evidently, the tracker missed little, his eyes noticing Mike's revolver, which she'd all but forgotten about.

"Did Eben send you?" she asked, trying to piece together what little she knew about the trapper. If Eben had sent Beau, it would explain how he was familiar with her, why he hadn't attacked them while they were on the road. The Leader of Talon Company would want to handle this particular matter personally.

"One more word bitch and I'll break your fucking jaw," Beau promised, seemingly trying to deny her any information. In reality, he ended up doing just the opposite, confirming her suspicions that Eben had sent this man after her.

And it was as she came to this realization that Mike did what had to be the dumbest thing she'd witnessed in their travels together: he reached for the revolver. The tactical side of Catherine's mind understood that he was trying to pull the bounty hunter's attention onto himself, hoping that she could subdue Beau. However, the rest of her mind was focused on just how quickly the trapper's baton had suddenly flown from his belt.

Pushing the chair out from under her, Catherine put one hand on the rifle still slung over her shoulder, knowing she wouldn't be able to get her sights on the trapper before his club shattered some part of Mike's body. However, the trapper didn't even attempt to hit the doctor. Instead his short baton slammed into her fingers just as they brushed against the rifle. Moving faster than her eye could follow, Beau then brought the club into her rib cage with enough force to knock her to the floor.

The entire exchange had taken place in the blink of an eye. By the time her ass had hit the floor, the doctor was still raising his pistol. If he'd tried to level the weapon properly, Mike would have been clubbed just as swiftly as she had. Instead, as Beau's club swept toward the doctor's elbow, he fired the revolver into the table. Though there was no way Mike could see what he was aiming at, the round passed straight into the trapper's knee.

With a shout, Beau stumbled, his leg unable to support his weight, and he sat back in his chair. In the time it took Catherine to wonder if he'd do it, Mike pointed the pistol at the bounty-hunter's cheek and fired again. There was a heavy thump, and the once-infamous Beau fell to the floor, grey matter leaking from a hole in the back of his head.

As though he'd intended to shoot the dead man again, the doctor put his thumb on the revolver's hammer. After a moment, Mike let out a sigh and lowered the pistol. He reached into the dead man's coat, snatching the sheet of paper the trapper had been reading. Without another glance at Beau, he helped Catherine to her feet and the two of them made for the bar's exit.


	22. Distractions

A/N: Another big thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed thus far. Thanks again, enjoy!

Distractions

Though most of the patrons had fled the bar and nearby area at the sound of gunfire, those who remained behind looked unsavory enough that Catherine wouldn't put a fight over a dead body above them. With that in mind, she and Mike didn't stop until they'd made it to the relative safety of their room.

Between putting the doctor back in one piece and the room, they didn't have the caps for a second visit to the medical facility. And between the ache in her ribs and the blistering pain emanating from her left hand, Catherine was sure she needed some kind of medical attention.

"How bad?" the doctor asked, hastily stuffing the sheet of paper he'd taken from Beau into his pocket. Rather than answer, Catherine sat in the room's chair, holding her hand up for him to see. The moment the opportunity had presented itself, she'd glanced at the injury. Her left index finger was broken, pointing off to one side slightly and already swollen.

"The note's from that guy you slept with, by the way," Mike said placidly as he kneeled to get a better look at her hand. Catherine shut her eyes, trying to ignore him. "You must have really rocked his world for him to come all the way to Canada for you."

"Can you just fix my hand please?" she asked through clenched teeth. Why was he teasing her now of all times?

"I just need to make sure everything is lined up first," the doctor responded, still examining her digit. "So the sex was good then?"

"Oh fuck you," she snapped, moving to take her hand away as blood rushed to her cheeks. Before she could, the doctor pulled on her finger. With a harsh crack the bone slid back into its proper place. When it did, her mind flooded with a kind of sharp agony she didn't have words to describe. It blocked out everything else, her vision blacking out, and her muscles going limp.

Just as quickly, the pain vanished, replaced by a steady throb. When Catherine regained her faculties she found herself leaning against Mike's shoulder, his hands awkwardly holding her up by the shoulders. He waited for her to nod before letting her slump into the chair. Though her hand felt in some small way better than it had before, her left side still throbbed horribly.

"He also got my ribs," Catherine described, trying not to grit her teeth. As the doctor pulled a roll of grey tape from his bag, she removed her winter coat. After he'd splinted her finger, Mike gently pressed his fingers against her sleeveless shirt, tracing her bottom rib starting at her spine. "If you move any higher, I'm kicking your ass."

"Duly noted," he responded absently. Thankfully, the doctor didn't seem to be interested in his usual gutter minded thinking, as he pressed against the fractured rib with professional formality. When he found the break, Catherine sucked a hiss of air through her teeth.

"It's not too bad. He only cracked your two bottom ribs." He retrieved the tape again gesturing for her to lift her arms. Though the movement caused her ribs to cry out in fresh, splintering agony, Catherine obliged. Without a word, and seemingly ignorant or uncaring of the general discomfort of the moment, Mike wrapped the tape around her mid-section.

"That the first time you've killed someone?" she asked trying to ignore how close he was leaning toward her. Despite the occasional jostle, she could feel the simple brace do its job, holding the wounded bone in place.

"I'm a doctor. I've killed lots of people," Mike replied dryly as he bent over her shoulder to bring the tape around her back. "But no. He wasn't the first person I killed intentionally. One of Le Divin's soldiers caught me on my way out of Montréal …" He trailed off, not needing to explain.

Trying to find something to keep her mind occupied, Catherine thought about the comment he'd made to distract her from her broken finger. In retrospect, thinking about Eben and Talon Company, although it provided something for her to think about, was probably not the best topic.

"For the record," she stated. "No, the sex was not good." Mike let out a bark of laughter pulling on the tape hard enough to make her wince. "We should leave Can Pac as soon as possible."

"Why?" the doctor asked, cutting the roll and replacing it in his backpack.

"Beau probably found a way to tell Eben where we… I mean, I am," she amended hastily. "Can Pac is big enough to have a transceiver, and we've been here a while…." Aware that she was beginning to babble, Catherine suddenly found it difficult to stop.

"The sooner to leave, the more likely we can slip away. In fact, if we leave now, he won't be able to track us at least until the sun rises. If he's that close, I mean," she continued, trying not to imagine Eben and all of Talon Company bursting through the door.


	23. The Subject of Clarity

The Subject of Clarity

By the time they'd gotten a new coat for Mike and left Can Pac, the town had begun to quiet down for the night. It was still too early to count out the midnight owls, but most of the regular denizens and travelers had gone to bed. Catherine hoped that would work in their favor. If no one was up to see them leave, it might buy them even more time. She also chided herself for thinking that Eben must have been only minutes or seconds away. He wasn't the bogey man, or some supernatural monster. He was just a man, even if he was the most dangerous man she'd ever met.

Once Can Pac had disappeared behind the trees, the darkness of the forest had become absolute. With heavy clouds blocking any light from the stars, the only illumination came from an ethanol lantern they'd bartered for. While the small lamp was certainly better than nothing, it only cast a short ring of light around them.

Just as she was about to ask whether Mike was sure he knew where they were going, an ominous chirp filled the silence. They both ground to a halt, listening to the forest. Catherine knew her eyes were wide with terror and she could see a similar expression on the doctor's face.

"Shit," she murmured. Though she couldn't see the tueur mécanique, she could hear it moving through the snow. "What do we do?"

"I really wish you'd quit asking me that," Mike grumbled in response, dimming the lantern. Soon, he was only just visible, even though he stood only a few feet from her. "We can't hide, not in this cold." Despite the dark, she could see his glance in Can Pac's direction.

"Could we make it back to the town before it caught us?" Catherine asked hopefully. Another chirp split the night, closer, answering her question for her. It was more than an hour's walk back to the town built around a plane. Before she could think of another idea, she spotted a single red, light, a dot, shining in the dark.

Guessing where the machine was scanning for them, Catherine moved behind the nearest tree. Mike followed her lead, the lantern marking his movements. Of course, the trees wouldn't hide them forever. Eventually, that eye would round on her and the doctor. And at that thought, a narrow chance for survival became apparent.

"If you could distract it, I think I could blind it." Though she doubted her own words, she hoped her voice didn't betray that fact. In the dark, she knew he couldn't see her too clearly, but Catherine gestured at the lantern still clutched in Mike's fist, hoping he'd understand.

As the eye moved closer through the trees, the doctor swung around the tree he hid behind, the lamp blazing once again. He threw it directly at the drone, drawing his revolver as he did. For a moment the drone seemed uncaring, as though it had seen thousands of lanterns flying through the air before and knew to ignore it. Then Mike shot the lamp, spilling the alcohol based fuel inside.

In a flash, the forest was illuminated by a small clump of bright, orange flames. More importantly, the drone was lit up as well. Though she had noticed that the tueur mécaniques had come in different sizes, Catherine hadn't expected to encounter one this large. The machine towered over them, its leg connecting to its body high enough that she could walk directly under it without needing to stoop. Its canister, featuring a massive machinegun, whose barrel stuck from one end while the gun belt wound around its neck, easily towered over the flames.

Even so, the heat from the fire had kept it from seeing their body heat. With that in mind, she slipped out from behind the tree and took careful aim, letting her breath slide from her lungs as the crosshairs drew a bead on the canister. The rifle thumped into her shoulder, and an instant later the red eye shattered.

The machine let out a horrible shriek, its cheerful whistle turning into an ear piercing screech. It shook its head from side to side, oil splashing from the hole in its canister to feed the flames. Sensing her opportunity, Catherine put three more rounds into the metal cylinder. Each one produced an audible ping, but did nothing to pierce the metal. Seemingly aware of her presence again, the drone turned its head and fired a salvo of machinegun rounds at her.

The rounds slammed into the bark hard enough for the entire tree to shake under the assault as Catherine desperately sought shelter behind the towering tree. The forest was lit by a flash as bright as lightning, as Mike discharged a round at the machine. Though his shot went wide, the tueur mécanique turned its attention on the doctor. It slammed its head into the nearest tree as it tried to get a clear shot at her traveling companion.

Frantically, Mike dove around another tree. As the metallic beast attempted to blindly follow him, Catherine put another trio of rounds into its cylindrical head. As it turned to face her, seemingly aware that she was shooting at it, the canister slammed into a tree. Though the tree in question shook from the impact, it also cracked a small fissure in the drone's head.

Letting out another breath of air, and waiting for the space between her heartbeats, Catherine fired a round into the small gap. She was rewarded with a dozen rapid pings as the bullet ricocheted inside the cylinder. The hulking tueur mécanique let out another chirp, this time slow, almost mournful, before it slumped against the nearest tree and became still.

With her blood roaring in her ears, it took Catherine several moments to realize that it was actually dead. She lowered her rifle and let out a cry of victory, drunk on her own sense of accomplishment. His eyes wide, Mike moved to stand next to her, his expression turning from shock to jubilation when he found the destroyed drone on the ground.

Laughing, evidently still awed that either of them were still alive, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Though her ribs cried out in protest Catherine ignored them and wrapped her arm around his waist. It wasn't until the moment of shock had passed that she realized just how close she was standing to Mike, that she'd been staring at him for several breaths. Her heart was pounding in her chest when he cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. Turning her body so that it faced him, she returned the affection.

"Can Pac?" Catherine asked after a breathless moment. Evidently, as resistant to the idea of trudging back through the snow for a mile or more, the doctor hesitantly pulled away. As he dragged his blanket from his bag and draped it over the destroyed tueur mécanique's arched legs, she pulled her hair from its bun. When he turned back to her, she wrapped both arms around his shoulders, kissing him as he led her into the makeshift tent.


	24. The Morning After

The Morning After

A small puff of cold air where there should have been only warmth pulled Catherine out of her slumber. The steady early morning light only served to bring her further out of her short lived sleep. When she pulled the warm fabric around her tighter, she realized what was missing. Slowly, she opened her eyes and tried to focus them on the blurry figure moving around next to her.

"It's too early," she groaned as Mike slipped on one of his boots. How he was even remotely awake at such an ungodly hour was beyond Catherine's guess. After dragging him through the forest, fighting Beau and killing the Drone, not to mention sleeping with the doctor, Catherine had been pushed beyond the point of exhaustion. That the morning had been no more restful than the previous night did little in the way of aiding her desire to get up and start moving so early. Mike didn't respond other than to grin at her, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

In the end, they had decided to use their sleeping bags as a makeshift bed, while their clothing substituted for a proper blanket. Between that, one of the two remaining heating devices, and their body heat, they'd managed to ward off the cold, night air. As Mike looked to leave the tent, Catherine grabbed his collar, pulling him closer. She brushed her lips against his, hoping to draw the doctor back under the covers.

"If you want me - to cook you - breakfast," he explained, interspersing his words with kisses. "I need – to get water." Though he was obviously as opposed to the idea of being separate from her as she was to him, he pulled back nonetheless. The sudden gust of cold air that shot through the small space as Mike climbed out of their makeshift tent sent Catherine diving under the covers.

"Je reviens tout de suite," Mike called as his footsteps retreated. Though he'd left his coat behind, possibly as an added ward against the cold, she could feel the icy air that slipped beneath the edge of their makeshift tent. With an inward sigh, she consigned herself to getting out of the improvised bedding and getting ready for another long hike through the Canadian wilderness.

The world seemed clearer than it had in days, maybe even years. The same demons that had haunted her since her self-imposed exile from the DC wastes still remained. She knew that she couldn't simply forget the horrors that troubled her mind, no more than Mike could forgive himself for running away. However, they could forgive each other, and for the time being that was enough.

It was as she pulled her coat onto her shoulders that she realized her companion had been gone for too long. Either there was a stream or lake nearby or he'd gone to melt snow, and neither option should have taken so much time. Wondering how he'd managed to bury himself ass deep in trouble so soon, Catherine heard the sound of footsteps on the frozen ground.

"Should we really risk a fire?" she asked the shadow that was projected dimly against the blanket.

"Come on out, Cat," a familiar voice, which did not belong to Mike, called. When she heard it, her veins turned to ice. "Don't make me burn it down around you."

When she pulled back the blanket that made the walls of their makeshift tent, she found Eben standing over her, an Assault Rifle resting in his hands. By himself, the leader of Talon Company was an intimidating man. His face was impassive, cold blue eyes boring holes into Catherine's skull from beneath his combat helmet. The armor added to the intimidation factor, as did the four Talon Company mercenaries who kept their rifles trained on her chest.

Keeping her breathing steady, she pulled her rifle into view, keeping her hand as far from the trigger as she could. It wasn't until she had cast it aside that any of the mercenaries around her loosened their fingers on their triggers.

"Hey Eben," she said softly, keeping her voice from straying into either fear or agitation. The panic in her mind was not so easily removed. There was no sign of Mike. Either they'd led him away and killed him quietly, or he'd somehow managed to escape their sight. She couldn't find anything that confirmed or denied the doctor's wellbeing and not knowing was maddening.

"That was one hell of a chase you led us on." As he spoke, the leader of Talon Company pressed the barrel of his rifle to her shoulder, guiding her away from the tent. She couldn't sense any menace or hatred in his voice, though whether that was because he was hiding it, or that he truly felt nothing toward her anymore she couldn't tell.

"You and your new friend almost lost us in Pan Am." Was that a hint of jealousy in his voice? She tried to remember just how vindictive Eben could be toward other men. Calling him the jealous type was an understatement. She was fairly certain that on more than one occasion he'd killed a man for looking at her the wrong way.

"Did you two have fun last night?" he asked, a definite tone of jealously slipping through his attempts to hide it. While she doubted he'd really missed her after her departure, she also knew how possessive Eben tended to be. Whether or not he wanted her, he wasn't going to let it slide that she'd found someone new. Knowing that, she could begin to peel away his aura of calm and superiority.

"Twice," Catherine replied with a confident smile, knowing exactly how to press at Eben's insecurities. "And then again this morning." The patient, smug expression vanished from his face.

"I've finally decided what I'm going to do with you," Eben explained, any civility vanishing from his voice. He gestured with his hands, pantomiming his planned actions. "I'm going to cut your head from your shoulders, and tattoo the name of every piece of shit who thought they could fuck me over into your flesh. Then, I'm going to hang your corpse over the front door of our headquarters.

"Next," Eben continued, the effort to hide his manic, violent nature evident. "I'm going peel the flesh from your skull, cut the top off of it, and use it as my new coffee mug." As he spoke, the Talon Company leader stepped closer, his eyes glowing with hatred, as he stood only inches from Catherine's face.

"And when someone asks, what it costs to fuck with Talon Company," he shouted loud enough to leave her ears ringing. Then, Eben paused, taking a breath and replacing his scowl with a cruel smile. "I'm going to point to you and laugh."

Catherine met his manic and wild anger with a look of smoldering hatred. As long as she could keep him off guard she stood a chance of killing him and his cronies. However, before she could take another pass at fracturing his already unstable psyche, an almost cheerful cross between a chirp and a whistle echoed off the surrounding trees.


	25. Fear Mongering

A/N: Sorry it took so long to get this one uploaded. My hard drive kind of... melted. Anywho, i have a brand new hard drive and things seem to be working nicely again, so the next one should be up in a week or two. Thanks for reading, enjoy!

Fear Mongering

"What the hell was that?" one of the Talon Company mercenaries asked, glancing at the forest around them. Reading into the fear and uncertainty that she detected in his voice, Catherine found another opportunity to sow confusion and fear. The chirp had faded, but there was no mistaking the noise a tueur mécanique.

"I guess you came up the coast," she inferred, watching the group of soldiers scan their surroundings. "That means you haven't come across any drones yet. Don't worry, you will in a moment."

"I'm not even going to tell you to shut the fuck up," Eben growled. While the others had turned their gaze to the perimeter of the makeshift camp, he'd kept his on her.

"They can see body heat," she continued, knowing that the leader of Talon Company wouldn't silence her if she could intermix information with her fear mongering. "Right now, in this cold? We stand out like bonfires in the dark.

"I've watched five of those things slaughter hundreds of well-trained soldiers in one sweep," Catherine exaggerated, hoping to get the mercenaries jumping at their own shadows. "They don't miss. They don't stop and…"

The butt of Eben's rifle slammed into her cheek, forcing Catherine's silence, and knocking her to the ground. Even as he leaned over her, the barrel of his rifle inches from her forehead, she could see the layer of terror she'd sowed in the soldiers around her. They were trying to look in every direction at once, their eyes a blur of motion. The confidence of outnumbering an unarmed woman five to one had been replaced by the fear of the unknown.

"Oh my God," one of the women shouted, lifting her rifle to point at something in the woods. "What is that?"

Even from the ground, Catherine could see the small, metal canister that peered around the tree, its red light glaring at the mercenaries. In turn, the Talon Company soldiers-for-hire trained their weapons on the drone. From what she could see, and to her general dismay, this tueur mécanique was one of the smaller models. Compared to the one she and Mike had killed the previous night, this thing could have been the former's pet.

What it was about the machines that led them to play with their victims in one instance and violently exterminate them in another was beyond Catherine's reckoning. Her only guess was that it was related to the level of firepower their opponents carried. The two that had herded Mike and her into the river had missed them intentionally twice. The five that had assaulted the two battling armies hadn't missed once in slaughtering the soldiers. Evidently this machine fell into the latter category.

The flash of light, spray of crimson and distinctive crack of a gunshot occurred so rapidly that they were all but simultaneous. The Talon Mercenary, the same woman who'd cried out, fell to the ground, a red circle the size of a bottle cap in her forehead and a gaping hole, the size of a peach, in the back of her skull. Snipers called that shot, "crossing the T," an instantly fatal wound that left the mercenary dead before she'd hit the ground.

The Talon Company mercenaries reacted swiftly, instantly returning fire. In a flurry of gunfire, they moved behind the trees, putting some semblance of cover between them and the tueur mécanique. Even over the roaring bursts of rifle fire, Catherine could hear the rattling pings of bullets slamming into the drone's armored skin. While five drones had managed to surprise and slaughter several dozen militia fighters and untrained soldiers, she doubted one would be enough to kill the remaining four mercenaries.

"Staccato! Move your asses," Eben shouted over the din of automatic gun fire. At his orders, the mercenaries spread out, creating a wide line opposing the machine. They were forcing the drone to choose its targets, to swivel from one to the next, which would allow the others to fire on it freely. Before they could all get in place, one of the men caught a round in his chest. It was like an invisible hand had snatched his torso, sending him crashing to the ground.

Even at three on one, the Talon mercenaries were making mincemeat out of the drone. When it would turn to fire at one of them that soldier would duck behind cover while the other two opened fire. Within just a few moments, the drone fell to the earth, letting out one, last, defiant chirp.


	26. Hollow Point Closure

Hollow-Point Closure

While they'd been busy dealing with the drone, Catherine had crawled back toward the tent. She made sure to stay as low as possible to avoid catching any stray rounds that might have come her way. Before Eben could round on her, she had her rifle in hand. By the time he did turn around, his weapon already at his shoulder, his finger on the trigger, she was ducking behind a tree.

After its stay on the ground, there was a good chance a speck of dirt or mud had gotten into the weapon's mechanics. The last thing she wanted to do was attempt a standoff with Eben only to have her weapon misfire. As quickly as she could, she ejected the magazine, cleared the breach, and pulled back on the priming handle.

"Back on Cat," Eben shouted, his voice sounding terrifyingly close. "Keep your spacing."

Knowing she only had seconds, Catherine blew into the receiver, wiped the top of the magazine on her shirt, loaded the round that had been in the chamber, and finally slapped the clip home. There was no room for error, not when she only had six rounds in her magazine. It was more than enough if she was dealing with still targets that didn't fire back. But three Talon Company mercenaries were another matter entirely.

Listening to them moving through the snow, she could guess at their positions. Like they had with the drone, they were trying to out-flank her, force her to try and fire in every direction at once. If she played into their hand, they'd pick her apart easily.

Not wanting to play their game, Catherine pushed the edge of her barrel past the tree's edge. Had she actually tried to round the tree and get a bead on Eben, the responding burst of gunfire would have been the end of her life. Instead, she ducked back, trying to keep her head as the Talon Company leader put round after round of hot lead into the tree and air. While this move would only serve to put the psychopathic killer more on alert to her location and movements, it also caused his two cronies to pick up their pace.

Catherine couldn't see the mercenary to the left of Eben, but she could hear him, catch glimpses of his hurried rush through the snow. Before he came fully into view she put a round where she knew he'd appear next. More than a little pride seeped into Catherine's mind as the round turned the man's kneecap into pulp. He managed to let out a cry of agony and terror before her follow-up shot ended his life.

Relying on her instincts to guide her, Cather immediately dropped to one knee, turning as she did. A trio of bullets, so close that she could hear them snapping through the air, slammed into the tree she'd been using for cover. Had she stood still, those rounds would have ripped through the base of her skull. Catherine forced her trigger finger to wait until after her knee had hit the Earth before squeezing off a round at Eben's only remaining underling.

Some part of her mind noted the look of shock on the other woman's face as the first round slammed into her collar bone. Callously, Catherine put two more bullets into the mercenary. It was only after the third round rocked the Talon Company mercenary's head back, red splashing out from under the woman's combat helmet, that the sound of someone moving behind her reached Catherine's ears.

Shouting in frustration, she turned again, bringing her rifle's butt up to act as a club. With a violent clang, her rifle slammed into Eben's barrel, pushing the weapon to one side, pinning it to the tree that she'd used for cover. Even though the end of the rifle became alive with hot lead, all but deafening her left ear, Catherine didn't feel the concussive force of bullets shredding her flesh.

Her muscles screaming in exhaustion, she threw her weight behind her rifle, sending it and Eben's spinning to the ground. She instantly followed that with a hard, left hook that slammed into his liver, ignoring the sudden agony that flared in her broken finger. Before she could strike him again, Eben slammed his elbow into her cheek, sending her stumbling back a step. He'd managed to hit her in the exact same spot that he had when he'd struck her with the rifle and she feel the warm trickle of blood running down to her chin.

For a brief moment the two squared off, appraising one another. Though Catherine was feeling a kind of bloodlust she thought she'd left in D.C., Eben had clearly let his temper get the better of him. He was breathing hard, his lips curled back in a snarl as his eyes burned with hatred. More importantly, however, he'd seemingly forgotten about the knife strapped to his shoulder and sidearm on his hip. While a part of Catherine's mind was aware that he might have been waiting for the opportune moment to use them, she also knew that, in his blind rage, he could be hoping to tear her apart with his bare hands.

With that in mind, Catherine darted forward, intentionally exposing her stomach to the vicious uppercut that he delivered. She made an obvious grab for his knife. Evidently just as aware as she was that she could draw it and slit his throat in one, vicious motion, Eben pushed her arm away. Though he easily stopped her from grabbing the knife, her body blocked his view as her other hand darted to his hip. The next instant she felt a sudden blinding pain in her stomach as he delivered a punishing heel-kick to her abdomen. Gasping for air, Catherine spun once before landing face down in the snow, her arms pinned beneath her body.

"Time to die, bitch," Eben snapped, his comment followed moments later by the sound of steel sliding over leather. The confidence in his voice and steps as he drew his knife, the relaxed and arrogant demeanor as he moved to plant the blade into her flesh was both grating and exactly what she wanted to hear.

Rolling, Catherine brought Eben's side arm up to point squarely at his chest. He had a breath of time to respond, his eyes widening, the blade falling from his hand as he took a step back in sudden shock, before she squeezed the trigger. Had Catherine been the introspective type, she might have noted how good that first shot felt, how much it felt like retribution. It was payback for striking her, and it slammed into the armor over his chest with enough force to drive the psychopathic bastard back another step.

As she came to her knees, Catherine remembered the terror at the thought of Eben finding Mike, of what the leader of Talon Company might do to her traveling companion. And she put three more rounds into Eben, carefully making sure that she didn't hit his heart. The next round was for setting Beau on her, and it sent him to his knees. Rising to her feet, she fired again, recalling her flight into Canada.

Kneeling in the snow, Eben coughed, a pink mist erupting from his mouth. Though she'd been careful to miss his heart, Catherine knew she'd puncture his lungs more than once. She stood so that the barrel of her newly acquired pistol was only inches from Eben's forehead, knowing that he'd bleed out in only a few more seconds. But as she stood there, she relived every moment she'd lived in dread around him, every time she'd committed a heinous act or marred her soul out of the fear of Eben's rebuke. Catherine remembered her life in the Capital Wastelands as a Talon Company mercenary and pulled the trigger.

The 9mm hollow point carved a hole straight through the back of Eben's skull, snapping his head back as though he'd been punched. Already dead, the former leader of Talon Company slumped, his head rocking forward. Catherine decided to leave him there, a waist high statue for the elements to eat away, and brought her attention back to the campsite. Without another thought to the kneeling corpse, Catherine sprinted toward where she thought Mike had gone.

**A/N: Okay, Just an Epilogue to go! Thanks to everyone who's read and posted!**


	27. One Last Problem

One Last Problem

Reluctantly, Michael pulled away from Catherine, a small cup in hand to gather water. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best idea to try to stay in the same spot for so long, particularly not after the encounter with the tueur mécanique. However, he didn't see the harm in trying to act a little chivalrous toward his traveling companion.

It was as he kneeled to collect water from a nearby lake, thinking back on his trip north and the chance encounter with Catherine, that he learned just how poor of an idea it was. Over the sound of his boots shifting in the snow, the all too familiar click of a round being loaded into the barrel of a gun reached his ears.

"So you're the one Cat ran off with huh?" a snide voice asked. Slowly, with his hands in the air, Michael turned to find a man in black armor pointing a rifle at his face. Behind this man, another five mercenaries stood, all of them looking just as cruel and heartless as he did. From what Catherine had described about the group, the doctor could guess these were Talon Company Mercenaries, which meant the man in front had to be Eben.

"You stay here," Eben ordered, pointing to one of his soldiers even though his eyes stayed fixed on Michael. "No gunshots. We don't want to wake Cat, now do we?"

Smiling the way a child would as it pulled the wings off a fly, Eben turned and headed toward the destroyed drone. While four of the mercenaries followed him, one stayed behind. The soldier who stayed behind slung his rifle over his shoulder, grinning at the doctor.

"I know what you're thinking," the mercenary stated placidly. _I whole heartedly doubt that,_ Michael thought, though he kept his mouth shut.

"You're thinking you might be able to shout, or maybe force me to use my gun to warn Cat." Still grinning he pulled a combat knife from its sheath on his shoulder. "Go for it. She won't hear a thing."

In fact, Michael was too busy berating himself for leaving the revolver at the tent. Even if it held only two rounds, and he was a piss poor shot with the weapon, it did him little good there. He was also contemplating something much more rash than simply shouting a warning. He was intimately familiar with human anatomy, that and his familiarity with sharp objects might have given him an edge if it came to a brawl. But against a trained soldier, he doubted he'd be able to do much. Before he had a chance to make up his mind one way or the other, a gunshot echoed through the trees.

"Well," the mercenary said as Michael's blood turned to ice. "I guess they didn't have much to-"

He was interrupted by a sudden burst of automatic gunfire. In an instant, the forest in the direction of the makeshift camp was alive with the sound of an intense firefight. While the doctor was still trying to recover from the shock, the mercenary grabbed his shoulder.

"Move! Get out in front," the man ordered, pressing his rifle into Michael's spine. While the doctor's brain had been trying to cope with the sudden onrush of information, the mercenary had evidently not been as hindered. The two of them marched into the, Michael leading the way and acting as a rudimentary shield.

Well before they reached the camp, however, the sounds of gunplay ceased, and with it, so did the duo. After only a brief pause of silence, a scream split the sudden quiet air. Though he never thought he would take delight in hearing a man suffer, Michael knew it hadn't been Catherine who'd shouted, and that let a breath of hope enter his fear clouded mind.

No sooner had the mercenary behind him decided to move again, than more gunshots met the doctor's ears, this time sounding much closer. When the forest was silent again, Michael knew he'd have to act. Even if it meant he'd be shot, at least it would tell Catherine that there was another of these madmen in the forest.

In addition, the mercenary who'd stayed behind was breathing heavier, pressing the barrel into Michael's back harder and harder. At any moment, the mercenary would decide to be done with the doctor, and shoot him anyways.

Curling his hand into a fist, Michael took a step forward, hoping to land a right hook on the man behind him. Before he could so much as begin to pivot, a light flashed in the forest, and the deafening boom of yet another gunshot sounded.

Knowing he'd been shot, Michael waited for the sudden agony to hit him. He was in shock. That was the only explanation for why he hadn't already been thrown to the ground. In just another moment he'd feel the hot piece of lead lodged in his chest…

Except, it never came. After the gunshot, he must have closed his eyes, because he had to force them open in order to look at his own torso. There, he found no blood or shattered organs, no gaping bullet wound. Cautiously, he ran his hands over his arms, chest and thighs. Still feeling nothing, he turned to look at the mercenary.

Michael found the man who'd held him at gun point lying in the snow, his brains leaking from a gaping hole in his skull. Slowly, he looked in the opposite direction. Standing only a meter or so away, and looking as though she'd just run a marathon, Catherine kept a newly acquired pistol trained on the fallen mercenary.

Without a word, she crossed the narrow distance between them and wrapped both her arms around Michael's shoulders, firmly pressing her lips to his. Before he could get too comfortable, she pulled away and slugged him in the arm.

"What's the point of having a revolver if you don't carry it around?" Catherine's voice had climbed into a high pitched shout by the time the last word had left her mouth. Though she sounded angry, she kept on arm on Michael's shoulder, her face pale. "Are you okay?"

Rather than answer with words, the doctor kissed her, hugging her just a little tighter. Laughing, both from relief and from her outburst, Michael brushed a finger against her bruised cheek. He could understand her state of mind: anger, terror, joy and adrenaline all mixed together.

"Are you?" he asked, more than a little worried that Eben had hurt her. The question seemed to take her aback, almost as though she wasn't exactly sure yet.

"Yeah," Catherine replied after a moment. An expression that he could only interpret as contentment spread over his traveling companion's face. "I think I am."

Silently the two packed their belongings and left the blood stained campsite. Though, the road that marked the edge of Le Devin territory was closer than Michael thought it would be, neither of them had the energy to continue on much further beyond. Rather than push themselves harder than was needed, the two stopped in a field only half an hour or so from the road, finding a spot under a tree to rest for a moment.

"You know," Michael began as Catherine leaned against him, his left arm around her shoulder. They'd managed to find a moderately dry spot that overlooked a nearby lake to sit side by side. "We still have one problem."

Rather than respond, his traveling companion gave off something akin to a soft grunt. When he looked at her, Michael found that her eyes were shut. That made saying the next part easier as she was less likely to call him a wuss or blame it on "Canadian chivalry."

"See, when you're around, and when we aren't arguing or running for our lives," the doctor continued, grateful that he could say this while she slept rather than try to speak his mind when she was awake. "It's like I have something to lose again, something I'd miss… something worth missing."

He paused long enough to ensure that Catherine's eyes were still shut, and that she was asleep. If she had been awake, she probably would have told him to quit being so melodramatic. After all, they had just survived more than four attempts on their lives in less than twelve hours. Wasn't that stressful enough?

"I don't know if I can do that again," Michael stated, glad to have said it out loud.

"It's okay Mike," Catherine replied sleepily. She lazily tilted her head up to look at him, revealing the obvious fact that she'd heard everything he'd just said. With a comforting smile she once more leaned her head on his chest. "I'm not going anywhere."

A/N: Okay, that's all of it. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and review! Let me know what you thought of it!


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